


Sex Magic

by Moonstonemagic



Series: Sex Magic [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Simon, Boys In Love, Christmas, Established Relationship, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, POV Multiple, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Top Baz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 14:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17226137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonstonemagic/pseuds/Moonstonemagic
Summary: The night of the Leavers ball, Baz makes Simon feel magic again.  But is it for real?  And if so, how can they make it last?  (The answer is sex, obviously).





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> To all the fics I've ever loved before:
> 
> Longtime reader and lover of fic, but this is my first attempt at writing one. I'm late to the fandom, but I read Carry On this past September and completely fell in love. I read it two and a half times in one week (you know which half) and have been immersing myself in Snowbaz since. I hadn't really seen this particular idea played out yet, and realized I really wanted to bring it to life. And of course, Baz and Simon needed to get their truly happy endings.
> 
> Months later, I've crammed every fanfic genre and trope I love into this one story. Seriously, there's everything. There's smut and fluff and magic and cats and even Christmas. What was meant to be a short little story became this tome of a fic. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> And to all the writers - god bless. I seriously had no idea what I was getting myself into. Ya'll the real MVPs.

 

 

BAZ

Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.

 

Simon bloody Snow has just accompanied me to the Leavers ball and is currently laughing, pulling me by the hand and sprinting up the stairs to our tower room at the top of Mummers house.  It was beyond difficult when the object of my obsessions didn’t return for Spring Term, and there’s a sudden rightness when he bounds through the door and sits on his bed, breathless and blinking up at me.  This had been _our_ room for the longest time, and the discomfort and loneliness of Simon’s absence was simply intolerable at first, especially in the melancholy early days and weeks after the incident with the Mage.  His empty bed served as a constant merciless reminder that I wasn’t physically there for him when he needed me most, when he was just beginning to come to terms with the horror of being an accidental killer and with feeling the sharp vacancy of his magic.

 

I’d like to think Simon knows me well enough to understand why finishing the year out was so important to me, that he doesn’t find me selfish for abandoning him in his darkest moments.  After all, I’m a Pitch and my brilliant Mother was headmistress of this place.  Her own flesh and blood not completing (and excelling in) the entirety of the education Watford had to offer would simply not be on.  I deliberated for weeks, back and forth between the opposite dual pulls of Simon and Watford, torn by an ever-churning guilt at the thought of forsaking either of them, until Bunce sat me down and all but demanded I return.  Although she was bruised from her inadvertent role in the Mage’s death as well, shell-shocked and sleep rife with night terrors, she was still a woman with a knack for a good plan (bless her).  She’d decided she wouldn’t be returning without Simon and that she would devote herself to caring for him instead.  I’d been rattled at the Mage’s abrupt demise too (I’m not _that_ cruel), but there was no love lost between us.  If it hadn’t have been for the chance dumb luck of that day, I would have succeeded in avenging my Mother’s death and torn his jugular out myself.  The only thing I really had to mourn was the stab of Simon’s consequential emotional wounds, and when I continued waffling on my decision up until the very last day of winter break, he’d been the one to make my decision for me, pleading with me to return only after Bunce exasperatedly informed him of her proposal.

 

I’d always known Bunce was sharp, but she was as good a friend as she was a student and had pushed her cell phone at me as we said our goodbyes at the Watford gates, insistent upon a mandatory phone schedule with Simon.  She needn’t have worried.  I’m as weak as they come when it comes to Simon and we spoke (or sat in heavy silence) every single day, continuing our calls until the morning so we could hear the steady familiarity of each other’s breathing even in our dreams.  Still, the nights were long without his company, and I’d taken to lying in his bed, finding solace in observing our room as he would have, with the faint smell of extinguished smoke easing me to sleep. 

 

“Like what you’ve done to the place,” he grins, motioning to the open window.  Of course that would be the first bloody thing he’d focus on; it’s as if he’d never left.  I’d been in the midst of other housekeeping preparations when I’d decided to concede to our age-old battle in advance of his arrival.  I’m always going to lose when it comes to Simon – why bother delaying the inevitable?   

 

“Anything for you, dear,” I retort with a roll of my eyes, sitting directly beside him and dropping a kiss onto his golden-brown curls.  As a matter of habit, I tug an errant one into place behind his ear, trailing the side of his face with my fingers.

 

He leans into my touch and clasps the fingers of my other hand with his own, linking them.  “I’ve missed you, Baz,” he sighs.  “I’ve missed this place, missed my magic, so much it hurts.”  He slumps against me, tail flopping.  It’s as if his earlier agitation from the ball has been replaced with a sad resignation.  I can’t decide which one is worse. 

 

There’s no guidebook for this situation, no manual titled “ _So You’re Coping with Unintentionally Killing your Father Figure and Losing Your Magic?"_ My heart aches for him; I don’t know of any way to ease his pain, magickal or otherwise.  “I know,” I settle on, rubbing his back.  “I’ve missed you so much I’ve been sleeping in your bed like a lost puppy.”

 

He turns to me, thumping me on the chest.  “You prat!” his eyes narrow in feigned indignation.  “No wonder it smells so bloody posh over here.”

 

“Leave it to my barbarian of a boyfriend to fail to appreciate the importance of quality grooming products,” I counter with a sneer, reaching over to twist his tie playfully.

 

“I’ll just have to filch some of yours then,” he teases back, kissing the downturned corner of my mouth, which softens immediately.  “God, we’ve missed out on this,” he breathes, looking around the room.  “The ratio of time spent here as a couple versus time spent openly loathing each other is far too abysmal for my liking.  We could have been making like Trixie and Keris instead of snarling at each other day and night.”

 

I’ve thought of this often too.  It really isn’t fair that we got our act together so belatedly, what with being roommates and all, but like the cliché says, now is truly better than never and I’m certainly not going to complain.  I’ll take anything I can get when it comes to Simon.  “All that quarreling was clearly just the result of years of pent-up unresolved sexual tension,” I joke, although okay, it was most likely accurate on my end, if fifth year was any indication.  “Besides, we do have tonight, so it isn’t too late after all,” I offer, before adding less innocently, “And just how do you suggest we make up for lost time, Snow?” I still delight in provoking him, though it’s transitioned from antagonistic to affectionate over these past few months. 

 

I raise a suggestive eyebrow and he blushes in response, freckles blooming with pink.  _Gorgeous._ “Well, I do have one idea for starters,” he broaches, coming closer.

 

“What’s that?” I inquire as cooly as possible, anticipation rippling in my stomach. 

 

“Let’s push the beds together,” he laughs, pecking me on the forehead like the tease he is.

 

I lean in and give him a proper kiss.  “Brilliant,” I whisper.  “Carry on, Simon.”

 

 

 

SIMON

 

Sometimes I have to remind myself that this is real, that I haven’t dreamed it up, that Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch does indeed prefer snogging me to plotting against me.  Our hands are laced together, my head on his chest as we lie in our makeshift double bed after discarding our suit jackets and ties, his free hand drawing circles on my thumb. 

 

I’d thought him evil, a villain with hair as dark as his intentions.  Turns out the only thing he was guilty of all these years was fancying me.  I’d been a right berk, thinking the worst of him, but he’d been an insufferable git right back, so I think we can call it even.  We’ve spent a significant amount of time making it up to each other since, and now is all that matters in my estimation. 

 

“Baz,” I call, turning on my side so that I can follow the wicked swoop of his hair with my hand.

 

“Hm?” he hums, opening an eye.  _Unbelievable._ We’d spent years at each other’s throats in this very room, guards up and fists clenched at the ready, and here he is with his eyes closed, completely relaxed.  I internally marvel again at how much things can change, some things for the better. 

“Nothing really, just wanted to see you looking at me,” I murmur, reveling in the quiet of this moment.  He pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around my wings and rubbing at the velvety skin there before carding his fingers through my hair, scratching my scalp.

 

This _softness_ with each other is new too, but it’s been an easy adjustment to make.  He’d been rude and mean, callous and cruel.  But not anymore.  He’s been treating me with a gentleness I’d never thought him capable of and I’ve been taking great satisfaction in kissing away his perpetual sneer, smoothing out the crease in the brow above his too-high nose, rounding out his harsh angles. 

 

“Could look at you all night,” he says, and my heart’s in my throat.  “Especially now that I’m allowed.”

 

“So now that I’ve got my bed fantasy fulfilled, are there are any of yours we should work on?” I blurt.  Sometimes my mouth gets the best of me and I’m finding myself acting on subconscious impulses, like the time I first kissed Baz in the flame-filled forest.  Penny might call me brave, but I’d say it’s mostly stupid.  Still, I want to know what he’s thinking, innocent or not.  I’ve been out of sorts lately, drug out to stormy seas, but tonight I’m feeling more like myself in the comfort of our room, buoyed by Baz. 

 

His grey eyes snap open automatically, surveying my face.  “Simon,” he says, the easy familiarity of it making my toes curl, “we’re fulfilling fantasies I didn’t even know I had.  Kissing you at the Leavers ball in front of the whole bloody school with your tail in my hand as you stepped on my feet?  It’s not something I could have ever dreamed up.”

 

“But what about the ones you knew you had?” I press on, swallowing. 

 

He unwinds himself from me, pushing himself up.  “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

 

 

BAZ

 

That fucking showy throaty swallow will be the death of me.  I’m half-hard already just from wondering if Simon is really getting at what I think he is. 

 

I’d spent so much time studying Simon’s moods, calls and texts in the last few months that it was as if I’d added a course to my class load.  I’ll begrudgingly admit to missing Bunce’s companionship, but the competitive streak in me was grateful she didn’t return.  I undoubtedly would have had a more difficult run for first in class if she’d been here to take advantage of my distraction.

 

I’m analyzing Simon now, searching his face while I wait for an answer.  I focus on remaining composed, executing that controlled look of Father’s.  I’ve been holding myself back from doing anything more than holding his hand since the Mage’s end, waiting for him to take the lead.  Simon has had to deal with so bloody much and he still isn’t even sure if he’s gay.  The right thing to do has been to take our time, but if he thinks the time is now, then Merlin…

 

“Yes,” he responds, squaring his jaw like he used to do when he was preparing to fight me.  But there’s no fight now as I draw him up to meet me, tenderly kissing his mouth and then licking at his tongue more heatedly when his lips part.  He lifts himself up higher, forcing me to strain to meet his lips, and I’ll do it every time, giving into him like this.  He tilts his head, taking my bottom lip into his mouth and I react without thinking, wrenching him down and into me, tugging at his curls with an unconscious jerk of my hips.  He gasps, breathing heavily as our erections grind together. 

 

“Baz,” he pants, abruptly pulling off and away.  For one brief moment I’m crestfallen and contrite, thinking _you’ve really done it now, he must not be gay after all_ , and then the next I’m following his fingers as they move to undo the buttons of his shirt.  “Do you want...?” he trails off, face flushed and lips full.  _Crowley_ , do I want.   I want anything where he’s concerned.  And my body must think so too, as my fangs descend on instinct, filling my mouth with the swell of saliva. 

 

“I want whatever you want,” I reply.  Nothing I could say would be closer to the truth.  I stand up on unsteady legs, fingers trembling as I assist him with the buttons on his wrists.  And then I’m ripping it away and tugging his vest over his head and my jaw slackens as I stare at the vision before me.  So I’ve definitely got a thing for freckled broad shoulders.  And scattered moles.  And messy curls.  Okay, maybe just a thing for Simon Snow.

 

I’m dumbfounded, mind in a haze, but come back to my senses as he makes quick work of my shirt and vest.   And now he’s knelt before me at my trousers, unbuckling my belt, leaving me in just my pants, my arousal obvious.  My mouth’s gone suddenly dry, partially from want, but also due to the nervous fear of rejection.  It’s one thing to feel another bloke’s tackle and another to see it, I imagine (maybe I’m about to find out).  He rises up, staring and blushing, his breaths ragged.  “Simon,” I ask gently, “is it okay if…,” I gesture to his slacks and he nods, allowing me to return the favor. 

 

We’re both in our pants now, chests heaving as we take each other in.  My hands are shaking, caught between the desire to touch him and the uncertain paralysis of restraint.  Simon’s the first to act, fearless as ever, stepping forward to close the gap, looping his hands around my waist and dragging me down to the bed.  We rut against each other, my cock newly sensitive through the thin material of my pants, and I’m burning, burning, burning.  _This will end in flames_ I think, the heat of Simon rushing up through me, singeing every neuron in my body and blistering my undead heart.  I don’t ever believe Simon when he insists I’m alive, but I believe it now, my entire being set on fire, kindling to the blaze. 

 

“Wait,” he breathes, looking thoroughly debauched, curls astray.  “You never told me what your fantasy was.”

 

I pepper his jawline with desperate sloppily wet kisses, listening to the hammering of his heart as we buckle against each other.  “Really, Snow?” I groan.  “Pretty sure this erotic gropefest _is_ my fantasy.  Or one of them, at least.” 

 

“Tell me,” he pouts, taking the opportunity to grind against me persuasively, sending sparks into my vision.

 

I can’t deny him anything, especially not while we’re like this.  “Why don’t I just show you?” I suggest, countering with an upward raise of my hips, taking my time as I drag against him slowly.  He closes his eyes, a strangled cry working its way up the back of his throat.  I can feel my cock twitch – I don’t think I’ve ever been harder.

 

“Yeah – yes,” he growls.

 

I flip us over in an abuse of my superhuman speed and strength, pulling him into me and lifting him up until we’re on our feet and staggering dazedly to the closest wall.  I take care to tuck his wings into place before pressing him to it, raising his legs up and around my torso.  He hooks his calves behind me as I frantically press my hips into his, rocking up and against him.  I begin to explore the freckled expanse of his chest and have just dipped my tongue into the hollow of his collarbone when I feel his nails on my back, startling me from my diversion and back to my sole purpose.

 

 _Fantasy._ Right.  Simon bloody _smiling_ at me was a former fantasy turned recent reality.  Given our checkered past as more-than reluctant roommates, I still can scarcely believe that he even wants to be alone with me at times.  I’d never been so delusional as to imagine this scenario unfolding, his dogged insistence on enacting my more carnal desires.  Thank Morgan I have a well-worn imaginary playbook of fantasies stemming back from their creation in fifth year, or I’d be in trouble, standing stupidly with an erection and a broken brain. 

 

As I regain focus, I know what I want to do.  Intent, I walk him into the bathroom, his thighs bruising my pelvis as we continue to grope each other enthusiastically.  I pin him against the shower door, licking a series of moles on his throat unabashedly like the vampire I am.  He groans, reaching down to palm his erection with the heel of his hand.  “Need a little help with something?” I tease, placing my hand over his and pressing firmly.  He moans again, head falling backwards against the wall, panting out of his open mouth (mouth breather).  Even in my wildest fantasies, I never expected _this_ , all of these delicious sounds he’s making, the flush of his golden skin, the pulse showing in his throat.  If I had no control, I’d surely bite him, but years of longing for Simon from afar have given me the restraint of a saint. 

 

I may ordinarily be a cocky bastard, but I’m nervous about the potential next steps and Simon’s receptiveness to them.  “Can I take these off?” I inquire, sliding just the tip of one finger into the waistband of his pants.  I’m often grateful for my inability to blush, but am especially thankful now. 

 

“Thought you’d never ask,” he taunts, dragging them over and down his hips in an instant, causing his erection to bob up and for my brain to short-circuit.  _Has he put_ me _in_ his _thrall?_ I think foolishly, positively transfixed.  He’s so utterly perfect in every way, so bloody gorgeous I might die from the shock of it.  “Lovely,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to the mole beside his mouth.

 

I can feel him shiver; if it’s due to pleasure of lack of clothes, I’m not certain.  “Baz,” he whines, digging his fingertips into my biceps as he shifts his weight from one foot to another.  “Don’t leave me starkers alone.” 

 

I nod, and his hands are scorching-hot on my waist, searing into my skin.  His face is set into a determined expression, and if it weren’t for the sheer eroticism of it all I’d almost laugh.  We’re both so inexperienced, fumbling around in my school boy’s fantasy, but this is quintessential Simon Snow – he’s always so brave in every bloody thing he does.  I wish I could be, but I can’t help but be convinced he won’t like what he sees.  I close my eyes, sparing myself from witnessing his reaction.

 

I feel the air change and Simon gasps, causing my eyes to flutter open.  “You’re beautiful,” he sighs, and my heart sputters back to life. 

 

 

SIMON

 

I thought I was hard before, but I stiffened immediately upon entering the bathroom, breathing in the smell of Baz, of cedar and bergamot.  The perfumed air has me dizzy now, doubly hard and intoxicated at the total sight of him: the grey marble of his skin as cool and flawless as a statue, the taut football-toned muscles of his legs, the sinful length of his dripping erection.   With his widow’s peak, he looks regal, untouchable by someone as Normal as me, but then he’s smiling, small and shy, and I see the hint of his fangs. 

 

I can tell I’m in trouble, but that it’s danger of the best kind.  I’d drink him in all night if I could, but he’s yanking me to him, his mouth needy on mine, his hands everywhere, our cocks fitting together for the first time, skin on skin.  I’m moaning unselfconsciously now, my senses awakened to feelings I haven’t permitted myself to enjoy in months.  He pulls me into the bathtub, aiming the shower head to massage my back before kneeling at my feet. 

     

“This okay?” he grins wickedly.  “Promise I won’t bite.” 

 

Is it daft to let a vampire suck you off?  If it is, I’ve decided I really don’t fucking care.  I’d trust Baz with anything – he hasn’t turned me yet. 

 

“More than,” I growl, and he’s on me in an instant, tongue licking the length of my erection, circling the tip with a swirl.  He breaks to kiss the skin of my thighs and I moan impatiently, fingers pulling at the slick of his wet hair.  “Bloody tease,” I huff, and he responds by smirking up at me, lightly trailing his fingers from the bottom to the top of my shaft until he’s satisfied with my pleas.  When he finally takes me into his mouth, I have to will myself to remain still, securing my hips in place to prevent myself from bucking further into the cool-heat of him. 

 

He’s bobbing on my dick now, virtually suckling on my length, making my legs weak.  I push a hand against the shower wall, locking my knees in an effort to hold myself up.  He moves his hands from their grip on my pelvis: one encircles my cock, moving rapidly as he works the top of my shaft with his mouth and the other reaches down to pull at my bollocks, rolling and squeezing them.  I can feel my orgasm rapidly boiling up, and I’m practically sobbing at the near-release of it. 

 

“Baz, want you… want you so bad,” I cry out and he looks up at me, sea-grey eyes flashing and I’m coming undone.  I can see his own cock straining upwards, hard between his athletic thighs.  My mind goes to a memory of him on the pitch in his kit, hair disheveled and lips smirking at me in a challenge, his expression nearly identical to the one in this moment, and I’m finished.  “Baz, Baz, I’m gonna…,” I warn, but he continues, swallowing around me as I pulse into his mouth, my release ripping out of me like a lightning strike, static building against the palms of my hands for a moment and then briefly fizzling out.  Baz finishes with a long lick, dragging his tongue into my slit before gently squeezing me with his long fingers one last time.  My palms crackle again fleetingly. 

 

 _If I didn’t know better, I’d say that felt like magic_.  I pause, considering telling Baz, but I don’t want to worry him.  I’m not so certain of what I’d exactly be notifying him of either, as the feeling passed as quickly as it came and dissipated without so much as a hint of magickal residue.  This is probably just what sex is supposed to feel like, right?  A rush of energy sparking between two people.   _This isn’t_ going _off, it’s just_ getting _off_ , I continue reasoning with myself. 

 

“God,” I rasp, bonelessly sinking to my knees to join Baz as the water beats down around us, closing my eyes in contentment as I spiral back down to Earth.  For a moment it’d felt as if I was back in the stars we’d created not long ago, floating through space.  “You’ve had a lot of practice in your fantasies,” I comment.

 

“I was born for this, I guess,” he remarks coolly, “…Either that or I’ve just had a lot of time to think about it,” he laughs, his hand reaching out to stroke my hip and the line of my tail soothingly, prickling my skin and making me shiver.  Baz is good at everything he’s ever tried, so I’m not surprised he’s found yet another skill he excels at.  I’m not complaining. 

 

“Well, you’ve got to teach me your ways,” I exhale shakily.  “We can get started now if you want,” I offer, reaching for him. 

 

To my surprise, he’s already spent, looking embarrassed.  “I couldn’t wait,” he groans, a hand brought across his features.  “The look on your face…,” he lapses, shutting his eyes. 

 

I pull him close into an extended kiss and I move my wings to surround us, shielding us from the spray.  When we part, we stay in place, leaning our foreheads together, breathing in the steam and each other.

 

By the time we’ve crawled into bed, my head resting on his chest, I’ve added to my list of things I’ll miss most at Watford:

  1. Baz.  This one’s self-explanatory. 



 


	2. Part Two

BAZ

 

I’m practically glowing and am uncharacteristically tardy by the time I meet Fiona for my promised celebratory evening of congratulatory drinks.  Who would have ever thought I’d also secretly be doing some celebrating of my own after spending a night tangled up with Simon?  It took longer than I expected to extract myself from his arms (and kisses) after spending the night (and most of today, if I’m honest – right up until the very last minute of the allotted move-out time period) saying our temporary goodbyes and finalizing talk of our living arrangements.  I’d agreed to room with Fiona once I’d decided on the London School of Economics, and Simon has all but been promised to Bunce for ages.  We’d discussed shaking things up, but it felt more honorable to keep our commitments, although ditching our plans in favor of shacking up together was wildly tempting.  However, after the debauchery of last night, we both agreed living together might be too much of a distraction come Fall Term.  He’s gone to sort out a potential flat with Bunce and I’m here, languishing in reliving the ghosts of Simon’s kisses.  I absentmindedly touch my lips, still burning with the memory, and am treated to a whack upside my head.

 

“Oi! I promised my nephew a good sozzling and your head is up in the clouds instead of in your drink!” Fiona admonishes.  I stir my gin and tonic and muster up a shrug (a bad habit I’ve unfortunately seemed to have picked up from Simon).  I must not look reproachful enough for her liking, as I’m rewarded with another hit.

 

“Okay, okay!  Sorry!” I mutter, taking a pull of my drink and giving her a mockingly bright, too-large grin.  “Happy now?”  I have to stop thinking of Simon immediately.  Fiona mustn’t suspect a thing and I mustn’t ruminate on flashbacks that are bound to make me half-hard in the middle of a posh Chelsea bar.  _Fuck, too late._ I’m already recalling Simon writhing beneath me, the curves of Simon’s showy swallow as he reached out for me, the way he opened his eyes this morning and nestled into my chest, placing a kiss on my heart and automatically lacing his fingers in mine.  _Pull yourself together, Pitch. Think of the spoiled-fish taste of merwolves, think of the Mage’s laughably atrocious mustache, think of the raw dampness of the Catacombs, hours spent bowing over Mother’s tomb, literally_ anything _else…_

 

She tilts her head, examining me.  “Only because you seem to be, you ungrateful brat,” she says at last, although not unkindly.  She looks directly into my eyes and I avoid her gaze, focusing on spearing my lime straight through with a cocktail pick in an effort to sidestep any further in-depth analysis of my mood.   “In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re looking awfully shagged silly,” she announces with a knowing smirk. 

 

Thank Merlin I’m not capable of blushing.  I roll my eyes and try for an indifferent sneer, but my mouth must be traitorous, recollecting Simon’s lips again, as it pulls upwards in the smallest quirk of a giveaway smile.

 

“ _Knew it_!” she gasps, whapping me on the shoulder.  “Knew you wouldn’t turn down a night on the town with your favorite Aunt unless you had a better option at the Leavers ball.  Don’t think I forgot all about your mystery bloke either.  Spill it, Basil.” 

 

Shite.  I didn’t want to confess so soon, not when I’m still living each day with Simon as if it’s the last one, despairing over the inevitability of _us_ ending in flames, but I don’t want to lie outright to Fiona.  I take a deep breath.  “Fine,” I admit, “so I shared an evening with my bloke.  Satisfied?” I ask, with a raise of my eyebrow, knowing full stop that she won’t be.

 

“Hardly,” she huffs.  “If I’m going to be seen with you in public making moony-eyes into your drink and caressing your lips like a numpty, I’d at least like to know the sordid details.”

 

I resist the urge to splutter.  “I have absolutely been doing no such thing,” I hiss, and then manage to deflect with, “Fiona, you _really_ don’t want to know.”  It’s true she may not want to hear my secret, but I’m not being entirely honest with my own desires in my move to avoid disclosing it.  Now that the truth is here and is resting heavily on the tip of my tongue, I want to tell her so badly, just to have somebody to confide in and set my worries to rest, but I can’t anticipate that her reaction will be a good one. 

 

“ _Come on_ , Bazzie,” she implores, using the detested nickname I’ll only allow her to call me.  She knows it will soften my resolve and I’m so weak already.  “I promise not to say anything, I swear I’ll just listen.  I’ll spell my mouth shut if that will convince you.”

 

I know there’s not a chance in Hell of that happening, not with the confession I’m about to divulge.  “Although intriguing, it’s not necessary,” I state as breezily as I can.  I take a long drag of my drink, counting down from five in my head until I feel the warm beginnings of the alcohol stinging down the end of my throat.  I’d much prefer the comfort of a cigarette’s flame instead, but I suppose this will have to do.  Before I can turn back, I choke out, “MymysteryblokeisSimonSnowandI’mdesperatelyinlovewithhim.”  I duck my head instinctively, waiting for the next blow.  It doesn’t come.

 

“What?!?” she cries, drawing the attention of a few bystanders.  This is exactly the scene I was hoping to avoid.   I’m thankful for the dim lighting of the bar and slide my wand out of my sleeve surreptitiously, casting a quick, “ **There’s nothing to see here**.”   The heads of the nearby patrons turn as quickly as they first had in the opposite direction to stare steadfastly back into their cocktails.  There is really nothing to see here, is there?  Only a vampire professing his undead love for the Chosen One after years of invented hate and bitter longing. 

 

“I can’t believe it, him of all -”

 

“Fiona,” I attempt to interject feebly, but she continues. 

 

"- people?  I thought you despised him as much as we do.  The _Mage’s Heir_ , Basil?  For Crowley’s sake, we were accomplices in a hundred different plots to end him and his sorry excuse of a leader.  Really?  I’ll hear you out because you’re my nephew and I’m forced to love you, helpless as you are, but what would Natasha say?” 

 

 _Here we are again_ , I think, letting out a sigh.  _And what would my Mother say?_ All things ultimately circle back to her, especially where my aunt is concerned.  Fiona tries her best to carry on in her memory, but I have no concrete ones of my own other than the feel of flame-roughened hands and the warmth of her smile.  All I have is what others tell me of her and I wish so badly I could hear from my Mother as to what she’d think herself, but I’ll never have the privilege.  I’ve secretly suspected it means something that she chose to Visit Simon in my absence, that she placed the kiss that was meant for me onto his forehead.  She wouldn’t have revealed herself to someone who didn’t matter.  There had to have been a way for her to have known what Simon means to me, or that the visiting itself was proof of her approval of him as a person, at the very least.  She searched for me for weeks and would have observed him with her every attempt to see me.  It just simply _has_ to be more than a case of right place and right time.  Coincidences don’t suit us Pitches – we deal in certainties, in blacks and whites, rights and wrongs.  This family value is partly why it so agonizing to fall in love with Simon – it was _wrong, wrong, wrong_ until it wasn’t.

 

“He helped me find her killer,” I finally insert.  Her face softens, her lips forming the beginning of a question.  “I told you about the Visiting.  I just didn’t tell you how I was able to get her message from the inside of a coffin.  She came to Simon and he told me, even though we were supposed to be enemies, because that’s just the kind of person he is.  He’s just so bloody noble, Fiona.  He’s irritatingly loyal, annoyingly determined and is still so aggravatingly full of joy and love despite all of the shit he’s been through: chucked from fucking orphanage to orphanage, willingly having his magic sucked dry by the Humdrum and forced into rooming with a horrendous plotting tosser like me.  He’s stupidly good-looking and doesn’t even know it, which only makes him more handsome.  He’s endearingly thick and eats far too much butter than any sane human should.  He’s so damned alive and his eyes fucking _sparkle_ when he eats a sour cherry scone and after he’s been snogging me.  I can’t decide if it’s to his credit or his detriment that he’s willing to even trust me despite all of the venom I’ve spouted at him and all of the crap I’ve thrown at him for years on end, all because of my own foolish pride and rotten jealousy.” 

 

She says nothing, just gawks with eyes as big as saucers, and it all keeps tearing inside of me, twisting until it claws its way out.  “This is too good to be real and is more than anything I could ever deserve.  I’m obviously disgustingly in love and am maybe even happy for once, and I’m terrified that he’ll finally come to his senses and will leave me.  How could he not?  I’m a repulsive member of the living dead and he’s as pure as fucking white freshly fallen snow.”

 

Aleister Crowley, is it ever out now.  I’m breathing heavily, nearly in tears from the weight of my fears combined with the freedom of my confession.  I’ve been a right arse for ages, and like a sinner ready for penance, I’ll do anything to absolve myself.  Simon may not be the Chosen One after all, but I’ll choose him again and again until the end of my undead days.  I drain the rest of my glass and motion for another one, focusing on the wood grain of the bar and on leveling out my breaths. 

 

The thump I was expecting to receive ages ago hits me now, disturbing my reverie. 

 

“Basil,” Fiona murmurs, laying a soothing hand on my shoulder.  “Don’t you ever speak of yourself in that way to me again.  If your mother was here, she’d be telling you that such talk is utter bollocks too, I swear it.  You’re resilient, you’re quick as a whip and whether you want to admit it or not,” she continues, poking me in the center of my chest, “you’re a kind person, deep down inside.  You’re more than worthy of love and happiness and you’re worthy of Simon, if he’s the one you really want.”

 

“Thanks,” I mutter weakly, cupping my hand around my full glass, tracing the beads of moisture from top to bottom, rolling the condensation away. 

 

“I mean it,” she says, touching my hand and placing a hand under my chin, raising it until I meet her eyes.

 

She must be satisfied with what she sees.  In the next blink, she’s whapping her hand on the counter and grinning, shifting the mood in an instant.  “On to other things!  Sounds like you two are getting quite busy,” she crows, raising a suggestive eyebrow.  “Don’t worry,” she says, in reaction to what must be the horrified expression on my face, “I’m your Aunt, so you can spare me from the truly dirty details, but I hope you boys are being safe.”

 

“Oh God,” I groan, swearing like a Normal (another oddity of Simon’s I’ve seemed to have adopted).  This is _so_ not happening.  “Fiona, thanks for the sentiment, but I’m really not interested in adding more cringe-worthy material to my personal highlight reel.  The last chat I had with Father ended awkwardly enough when I revealed I’m more interested in the bees than the birds.”  Although nothing could be more mortifying than my impromptu coming out session, I’d prefer to avoid any further distress.  Recollecting Father’s confounded face as it deflated and his abrupt abandonment of “The Talk” is memory enough. 

 

“Oh no you don’t, sweet child,” she sings with a smirk.  It’s evident she is drawing some sadistic pleasure out of my discomfort, smiling on as I squirm on the barstool before I finally settle on another gulp of alcohol.  “You may have gotten out of one talk, but you won’t be getting out of this one.  It’s my given duty as your favorite Aunt.”

 

“You’re my only Aunt.  And besides, I don’t know how you’re going to finish it,” I shoot back.  “The sticking point was that Father wasn’t entirely knowledgeable about gay sex,” I sneer, rolling my eyes to the rafters.  “Unless you have something to tell me, that is,” I add, fixing her with the most faux-innocent expression I can muster. 

 

“There’s more to it than gay sex, you numpty,” she lashes, whacking me on the chest again and shaking her head, incredulous to my ignorance.  “There’s magic too, for cripes’ sake.  Don’t they teach you kids anything in school anymore?” she demands, seeing the cluelessness apparent on my face.  “Leave it to the school system to sanitize sexuality and eliminate sexual education.  The end result will be a society of young magicians fornicating willy-nilly with dire consequences to pay.  That Mage was as brainless as they come,” she grouses.

 

I’m about to lose her to an anarchist, heavily anti-Mage-centric rant and I’m loathe to admit it, but this is important.  “Magic?” I urge, shaking her arm.  “What do you mean?”

 

“There are spells for everything, boyo” she enunciates slowly, as if she’s talking to a pea-brained first year.  “You really don’t think us mages wouldn’t have invented spells for sex?  There’s safety spells, for starters, spells for -”

 

“What do two blokes need safety spells for?” I interject impatiently.  “Don’t tell me we could get pregnant or some other absurd magickal nightmare.”

 

“Pregnant men?!?” she howls, clearly relishing the ability to fully take the piss.  “Of course not, don’t be daft.  They’re a necessary precaution in general, what with magickally transmitted diseases, although given your specific health _condition_ ,” she emphasizes heavily, “they may be especially worthwhile.”

 

The thought of possibly infecting or turning Simon makes me blanch, what little blood I have in my face surely draining from it.  _Merlin, why hadn’t I thought of this before?_ “My _condition_?  Fiona, do you know if that’s true?  Am I putting Simon at risk?” I ask, choking out the words.  My stomach immediately clamps and I can feel the alcohol I’ve imbibed tonight bubbling up in my esophagus.  _Please, this can’t be right_ , I plead internally.  I don’t have to be with Simon in that way if it is, I’ll absolutely refuse to do so much as kiss him, soul-wrenching as it would be, but after all we’ve been through, we just need one good thing, this thing we seem to do so well. 

 

“How should I know?  Do I really look like the type to seduce a vampire to you?  Actually, don’t answer that,” she adds, holding up a hand.  I stifle the involuntary urge to laugh, recalling the evening Snow, Bunce, Wellbelove and I plotted our invasion of the vampires’ hideout.  To be fair, Fiona does somewhat look the type with her punk demeanor, leather jacket and black combat boots.  She resumes, “It’s unchartered territory as far as I’m aware, but it won’t hurt to take extra measures.  Relax – I’m sure magickal society would know if there was some larger danger.  I’ve only been told to beware of vampires for the obvious reasons and not the sexual ones, although I have heard some find blood sports to be a kink,” she shares with a grimace.

 

“Okay,” I breathe.  I’m stricken at the very notion of even accidentally harming Simon.  _What an unfathomable turn of events_ , I reflect, and not for the first time.  Months ago I would have relished the opportunity to dream up ways to cause him pain and here I am now, gutted over the possibility of causing him any unintended hurt.  Simon doesn’t know it, but since the Mage’s death (and likely before then, if I’m honest) I’ve made it my personal vow to protect him always.  Simon saved the world from the dry-suck drain of the Humdrum by sacrificing his magic, the very essence of a magician, and unintentionally spared me from killing another man, as much as the wanker deserved it.  Seeing to his health and happiness is my private unbreakable promise and I simply can’t jeopardize it for a roll in the sheets, as much as the prospect occupies my waking mind.  “So,” I transition, “what other relevant spells are there, male pregnancies aside?  Like, **Me so horny**?”    

 

Tension gone, she snorts.  “That one isn’t in my repertoire, but there are spells that may interest you, ones that could make things,” and at this she does blush, smoothing her bleached hair, “ _easier_.”

 

“What, like a thrall?” I sneer disgustedly. “Fiona, I appreciate it, but I really don’t need help in that department.  Simon seems to be a willing participant and that’s definitely not one of my fetishes.  One of the causes of my constant anxieties is that Simon still doesn’t really know if he’s well and truly gay either.”  _Although_ , I think, _surely after last night that issue has been solved?_ Simon seemed eager enough.  And vocal about it.  _Mind out of the gutter_ , I admonish myself.    Now is still very much not the time or the place to replay last night’s lewd acts in my head.

 

“Shut it, you berk,” she asserts with an eye roll.  “And here we thought Snow was the thick one.  What I’m trying to say is that there are _certain activities_ you may be interested in that could require a little assistance.  _Please_ don’t make me show you the hand motion,” she sighs, holding up an index finger and forming her left fingers and thumb in the shape of a circle.

 

I pause for a beat, realization dawning.  “Oh,” I blurt out, speechless.  _Yes, there are_ certain activities _that are of much interest to me_.  My brain practically blurs with the anticipation of it happening one day.  “I feel like a right prat,” I burst out.  “How am I supposed to realize all this on my own or know what to do?”  The small amount of blood my system is able to spare returns to my face and I pray she doesn’t notice.  “There’s not exactly reference material for a person like me.  I haven’t exactly seen _The Gay Magician’s Guide to Sex_ when I’ve popped into a bookstore, much less a vampire’s edition.”

 

She’s outright chortling now and I take another exasperated drink.  “I’m no expert either, but I promise we’ll get it sorted,” she soothes.  “I’ll find you some non-dodgy reference material and will give you the time and space to review it alone.  That is, unless you want a study buddy,” she offers with a waggle of her eyebrows.  I don’t even have a moment to reject her offer until she’s continuing onto the next topic. “Then there’s the matter of your magic.  If you’re not compatible, your magic could reject each other.” 

 

I’ve heard the Old Magicians’ tales about magics not taking to each other same as everybody else, with their partner’s spells feeling like asphyxiation, stinging burns or electrocutions.  “But what does that have to do with sex if there doesn’t technically have to be any spell work involved?” I ask, genuinely curious. 

 

“If your magic isn’t in harmony, you’ll know.  Look, it’s fortunately never happened to me, but there are cases out there and you should be made aware as it’s an unpleasant reality.  From what I’ve heard, you can be head over heels in love with your partner, but they could feel… repulsed.  It wouldn’t be a conscious rejection of you – it has to do with the unique chemistries of your magics combining.”

 

Out of all the issues she’s enlightened me on, this one discourages me the least.  “I don’t think that will be a problem, thank you very much,” I reveal, taking a self-conscious sip of my drink after realizing I’ve given the nature of last night’s events away.

 

“I appreciate the renewed confidence in yourself after your earlier self-loathing rant.  I have to say it’s much more becoming for a Pitch.  But I do want to know, just _why_ is that?” she questions with a knowing grin. 

 

I shift in my seat and lazily stir my drink in an effort to collect my composure.  I certainly have no concerns given yesterday, but I already knew we wouldn’t be one of those doomed relationships with magics that were unsuited to each other.  “For starters, Simon doesn’t have magic anymore, after what happened with the Mage,” I begin.  “But when he did, I could borrow from his somehow.  We first noticed it when a dragon attacked Watford and I was attempting to send it away with an advanced nursery rhyme bit of spell work.  I was only succeeding halfway when he put his hand on my arm to steady me, but he managed to pour his magic into me instead, supporting and powering my spell.  We still don’t understand it and I don’t think we’ll ever have an answer, but his magic even healed me after I limped back to Watford following the kidnapping incident.   You saw me after, Fiona.”  At this, she visibly cringes, scowling with a muttered “fucking numpties” under her breath.   “It felt like months of healing took place instantaneously.  It was like our magic was in sync.  His was comforting mine and giving it weight, like it was welcoming me home,” I finish.  I don’t know if you could exactly classify me as a romantic, but the thought of our magics being compatible still makes me shiver.  Despite our obvious differences, we’re more alike than the outside observer would think, and his magic melding to mine gives more credence to that claim. 

 

“That’s unheard of,” she whispers, wide-eyed, “sharing magic.  That shouldn’t have ever happened.  If I didn’t know you were telling the truth, I’d tell you to piss off for taking the mickey.”

 

But it did.  It’s not possible for me to miss Simon’s magic as much as he does, but I ache with the loss of how our magics fit together all the same.  The _burn_ of it, that drowsy green smokiness, felt as familiar to me over the years as my own magic does.  I long for it too. 

 

“I tried another nursery rhyme the night of that first time, just me and him.  We were transported to the stars together, galaxies circling around us,” I pause in remembrance, bringing my glass to my lips.  “When we broke the connection, I felt an immediate loss as cold as the dark side of the moon.  I knew I loved him long before then when I finally figured out why I was so damn miserable all the time in fifth year, but this was much less angst-ridden.  It was more natural, almost imperceptible in a way due to how inarguable it was.  I felt my universe shift and center around him, like he was the bloody sun and I was caught in his orbit, desperate to have him in my life in whatever miniscule way I could manage, in a way where we weren’t enemies and we didn’t have to go on hating each other.”

 

“And he just gave it all away?” she wonders in awe, her hand on her chin.   I know it’s difficult to comprehend. 

 

“Of course.  I told you earlier - Simon Snow is bloody noble.  I’d like to think we’d have done the same thing, but we’re Pitches.  A world without the ability to do magic would be like a life without sight, an existence without sound.  He didn’t even question it for a minute.”

 

“Well, boyo, you didn’t need my approval, but this is the sappiest, most genuinely touching shit I’ve ever heard.  After tonight, I’m in full support of this union.  Now what should we call it?” she ponders.  “You need an epic celebrity couple name to match the heights of this Hollywood tosh.”  I should have known she’d feel compelled to torture me in exchange for her blessing, at least in some small and stupid way.  “Simbaz?  Nope, too much like Sinbad,” she dismisses.  “Snowpitch?  Nah, sounds like a punk rock band I’d listen to.  I’ve got it.”  Her lips stretch, teeth flashing.  “Snowbaz.”

 

“Snowbaz?!?” I repeat with a sneer, incredulous.   Ridiculous.  But for the first time tonight, I allow myself a true smile and relax into my shoulders.  I’m so overwhelmed at her acceptance of _Snowbaz_ that I don’t contest it further.  It goes against my entire existence to hope and I don’t know if it’s something giving way in me or if it’s the alcohol, but I find myself believing that I am deserving of Simon, that this could all really work out.  There’s one more thing though.  “Fiona,” I call, observing our surroundings, noticeably empty now save for the barkeep who is still respectfully averting her eyes.  “I think that spell of mine worked a little too well.  Maybe I should have spelled your mouth shut after all instead,” I tease. 

 

She clucks her tongue, shaking her head.  “Too much emphasis on the word ‘here’.  You may be top of the class, but you’ve still got a lot of learning to do.”  After our conversation, I suppose that is true; possibly in more ways than one.  “Besides, you wouldn’t dare, nephew of mine.  How could I order us shots without it?” she exclaims victoriously, clapping me on the back and signaling to the bartender for a round.

 

“To Snowbaz!” she shouts as we clink our glasses together, and I think to myself, _Maybe it really will be alright_. 

 

 

 

FIONA

 

Oh ‘Tasha, this one of yours is in deep. 

 

Of course I’ll be here for him.  Someone has to make sure he doesn’t muck it all up and as much as you loved that farmer husband of yours, Malcolm has proved himself rubbish at this kind of thing.  This is the first I’ve seen him actually showing signs of happiness in ages, and the sight of his smile makes my heart full.  He deserves this.

 

I’ve fulfilled the promise of a right sozzling for his graduation present, but now I’m thinking he’s more in need of something else and I know of just the bookstore that will have something of interest to him.  I hope you’ll have a right laugh from above as I’m browsing the aisles.

 

You’re welcome, sister.  I’ll always be here to do what you can’t. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiona is one of my favorites and I love her relationship with Baz, so she had to get her own little part. I also couldn't resist getting a little meta.
> 
> P.S. Miss Simon's POV? He gets his say next. Along with a return to smut, if you're into that sort of thing. :)


	3. Part Three

SIMON

 

The next time it happens, it doesn’t feel so fleeting, and I recognize it for what it is: _Magic_.

 

Penny is out to dinner with Premal in an ongoing attempt to mend their fractured bond and Baz and I have wasted no time getting on with it.  We’ve had little time to ourselves these past few weeks to get up to much more than frenzied snogging and we’d practically raced to my bed with the shutting of the door, though Baz had tried (and failed) to appear unruffled along the way.  Anything to have one over me, the git.  As if I couldn’t easily spot an agitated Baz from a mile out.   

 

I’m the very opposite of composed as I rut against him shamelessly, our cocks grinding sloppily together.  _Much too soon for this long a wait_ , I think as I push up and onto the palms of my hands, lifting my torso in an attempt to reset the pace and to slow the pounding of my heart, trading the quick animalistic pump of my hips for more languid and deliberate strokes.  He hisses at the loss of friction and I pause in response, stilling my motions as I smile down at him wickedly.  I’ve always taken pleasure in riling Baz up and this new facet of our relationship has provided an unlimited supply of opportunities to tease him.  Merlin knows I’m going to take advantage of it – Baz is bloody _hot_ when he’s all worked up, all blazing eyes and fiery tongue and scorching magic.  And it’s _so_ much better than fighting. 

 

I raise my lips above his, just enough out of reach so that he has to work for it.  Baz meets them greedily and I feel the muscles in his abdomen strain as he reaches up for me, digging his fingers into my curls.  I give him just enough, kiss him until his breath turns sharp in a jagged intake, then draw back to gaze down at him, the coal-black of his hair fanned out in a stark contrast to the white of my pillows.  I still can’t believe I get to see him like this – so vulnerable, his eyes like storm clouds, dark with desire.  I trail a finger across his lips and cry out when he takes it into his mouth, one perfect eyebrow raised in challenge.  I counter by lowering my hips to thrust against him lazily, the increments deliciously slow.  I drop my head into the crook of his shoulder and huff out a noisy exhale into his ear, sucking the lobe into my mouth as I bite it in retaliation.

 

He strikes swift as a snake and without warning, grabbing my arse cheeks as he buckles his groin upwards to meet mine.  I’m reeling at the sensation of his nails raking my skin, blood roaring in my ears as he fits a hand between us, joining our cocks together again.  His other hand mercifully remains on my arse, and he gives it a rough squeeze, eliciting moans from both of us.  I’m positive I can feel the twitch of my dick in his hand as we continue to drag against each other, pressure pooling in my groin. 

 

His hand moves and my arse bloody _mourns_ its absence until it finds my tail, pulling lightly.  “Fuck.  _Baz_ ,” I groan and he’s panting in my ear, telling me how close he is and how gorgeous and special I am and I’m like a switch that’s been turned on, exploding from the want of him.  Power charges across my fingertips as the swell surges erratically, mounting until it peaks and it’s shorted out abruptly.  My circuits are blown, but I’m electrified, moving swiftly off of Baz to take him into my hand, jerking him messily in the slick of my own ejaculation until he’s coming with a shout, head thrown back on my pillows.  

 

I’m shaking as I press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, clinging to him as he runs his fingers through my hair.  I don’t say anything, but I just _know_ what it is this time.  Magic.  Without a doubt.    

 

_____________________

 

The third time it happens, Baz finds out.

 

Fiona’s off chasing vampires in Russia on a classified assignment and we’ve been taking advantage of the empty flat.  Although she’d warmed to me over a few pints at the corner pub fairly quickly (to the point where Baz became quite cross with jealousy) and we’ve developed a friendly relationship with each other ever since, I can’t help but feel smug.  If she knew the things Baz and I have gotten up to on her settee, well… _Payback_ , I think waywardly. 

 

I’ve fought Baz for control and have lost, but have since realized I’m more than okay with losing out to Baz these days if this is my punishment.  Baz has me pushed up against a wall in the lounge, my arms pinned over my head by the wrists.  His hands hold me captive and they’re rough in all the right ways, calloused by the repetitive plucking of violin strings and the casting of flames.  My fingers itch with the desire to touch him, but I know I have others ways of regaining control.    

 

I thrust up into him as much as I’m allowed, our cocks trapped tight between us as he nuzzles the thin skin on the underside of my raised arms.  He moves on when he’s satisfied with my whimpers, licking a trail to my throat.  He laves at his favorite mole on the side of my neck, grazing it cautiously, using only the bottom row of his teeth.   It’s a dangerous game, but Baz is so deliberate and cautious, so uncharacteristically _gentle_ with me in everything he does.  I know he’d never bite me, even if I pleaded for it.  But I’d much rather beg for something _else_ , something I haven’t been able to cease replaying in my mind since the last time we were like this together.

 

“Baz,” I groan.  “ _Ungh_.  Could, could you…” I stutter, flustered.  It’s hard to voice aloud, but if I don’t, then how can I get what I really want?

 

He releases my arms gingerly, stroking the blood back into them.  He presses into me, resting his palms across the wall on either side of my head, leaning in until his lips are nearly on mine.  “Could I what?” he chides.  “Use your words, Snow.” 

 

He’s reveling in this far too much and I’d like to shut him up.  Fortunately, I think I know just the thing.  “Baz,” I forge on, gritting my teeth, “could you grab my arse again?”

 

He makes a small noise in his throat and I smirk, feeling triumphant, until his hands are swiftly on me, hoisting me up until my legs are wound around his low back.  His hands are full of my arse as he teases, “My pleasure, Simon,” with a breathless half-laugh.  _Bastard_.  I don’t want to let him win and I try to bite it back as best I can, but a desperate moan slips out as I claw at his back helplessly.  _Fuck, that’s right.  I can touch_ anything _I want._ I reach between us, pumping our cocks together furiously as he rocks up into my palm.  “Anything you want,” he continues, his voice low.  He pinches my arse and my head lolls, dropping to my chest.  “Anything for you.”  He ruts against me again, the force of it lifting me closer to the ceiling, and my wings react instinctively, expanding outward in preparation for flight.  He looks up at me, eyes flashing charcoal-grey in the evening light, and he comes with a jerk, spurting up and onto my stomach.

 

Baz sinks to his knees and is all hands, lips, and cool heat as he attacks my erection, drawing my climax out of me in a fury.  He licks the underside of my shaft from root to tip, working his tongue around the head until I’m sinking down the wall, thighs quaking.  He moves further south, mouthing at my bollocks and my magic jolts and amplifies, crackling around us.  He brings a hand to me and wanks me fiercely, once, twice and I’m a live wire, emitting shockwaves as my wings flutter, shooting me into the sky.  It’s as if someone’s cranking the lights up and up and up and I short out, white in my vision and noise thundering in my ears. 

 

When I come to, Baz has drawn me into his arms and is murmuring soothing words in between familiar spells.  “ ** _Get well soon!”_** His fingers are ice on my forehead as he brushes my curls back, his other hand working to pry open my eyelid. ** _“Early to bed, early to rise!_** ” he all but howls, his wand quivering as he conjures.  His magic burns inside of me, thawing my insides out, like steam from a bath. 

 

“Baz,” I mutter weakly, “ _Baz_.  I’m fine.  I promise.”  I think I am at least.  I don’t feel hurt, although I do feel… different.  _My magic’s stayed_ , I realize, an anemic smile forming on my lips.

 

“What the bloody hell was that, Snow?” he demands, incensed now.  Normally, I’d find the sight of an enraged and still very much completely starkers vampire mildly entertaining, but this one is still holding his wand to my head.

 

“Come off it."  I motion to his wand.  He lowers it, chest heaving visibly. 

 

“Explain,” he orders.  “Now.  I felt something and by Crowley I know what it was, but I’m going to need you to say it.”  He stares at me, arms crossed and unblinking.

 

“I think... Well, I don’t think, maybe I know, but it feels like my magic.  I guess.  I’m not entirely sure,” I finish lamely with a shrug.  _Use your words_ , I think, _or he may bloody well kill you_.   I try again.  “I’d felt it before… twice now… when we uh, you know, but it only flickered and now it feels… turned on?  I didn’t say anything because, well, I still don’t… I don’t want you to have to worry if it doesn’t last.”

 

“Simon,” he scolds, drawing himself up to the limits of his full three-inch height advantage.  “Don’t be an idiot.  I’m always going to worry about you.” 

 

“You shouldn’t have to,” I argue.  “I may be Normal now, but I’m not fragile.  Besides,” I add bitterly, “I’ve already been broken anyway.” 

 

“Don’t,” he warns, voice hard.  “I’m your boyfriend.  And I’m not a terrible one - it’s my job to look out for you.  I can’t promise to fix you, Simon, but I’ll be by your side as long as it takes.”  He bristles, glaring down at me, then softens, crumpling inward, his head in his hands.  “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers, “Again.”

 

I’ve been a right git.  Of course I should have told him.  I’d be hacked off if the roles were reversed and he’d kept something this monumental from me.  I pull him to me, resting my head on top of his.  “Baz,” I plead, planting a kiss to the crest of his widow’s peak, “I’m sorry.  I’d suspected it before, but I didn’t want to believe it myself in case I got my hopes up.  I really only put it together this time and I told myself I’d tell you if it happened again, but my body didn’t give me the choice first.  I was thinking earlier that I might be telling you about it today anyway since it seems to only happen when we’re uhm… together.”

 

He relaxes into me, shoulders lowering.  “You know I can’t bloody well stay mad at you even if I wanted to, especially when it comes to your magic.”  He’s still shaking; I hold him tighter.  “But it’s different this time?” he asks, lacing our fingers together.  “You still have it?”

 

“Yeah,” I say, flexing my fingers experimentally in his grasp, feeling the slight hint of magic there.  “Yes.”

 

His face is a mask.  He’s working at being composed and stoic, but I know he wants this as much as I do.  “And this only seems to happen when you’re uhm...” he coughs, “…with me?  Physically?  And not when you’re alone?”

 

Crowley, this is embarrassing, even if it is Baz.  I’d orgasmed and fallen into his arms like some delicate Victorian bride and now I have to answer to my wanking habits.  I’ve been doing quite a bit of that lately to get myself through the in-between times.  “Yeah,” I say with a flush, my neck hot.  I run a hand through the curls at the back of my head distractedly.  “Have you ever heard of that?”

 

Now it’s his turn to look uncomfortable as he shifts positions, although I suppose it could do with the fact that we’re still lying on the wooden floor.  “Maybe,” he admits guiltily.  “The night after the Leavers ball, Fiona forced me to listen to a spiel about… those sorts of things.”  He passes a self-conscious hand through his hair, dark as pitch.  “She mostly wanted me to know about incompatibility, but I know we’ve all heard the stories.”  I nod and he continues, “She didn’t describe it quite like this, but I wonder if there’s something that can happen if it’s the opposite way, if two peoples’ magics really and truly fit together.”  He’s getting that far-away look on his face as if he wants to study something.  “Simon, do you think Bunce would…”

 

“No!” I shout, aghast, and he startles.  “We are not telling Penny about this, this… sex magic.”

 

“Sex magic?” he chortles.  “Why act like a prude when I know for a fact that you aren’t?” he asks mischievously, arching an eyebrow and wiggling it.  “Besides, I thought you had a pact about secrets.  And you know she’d research this sunup to sundown until she cracked it.”

 

“It’s not that, you prat,” I retort, smacking his arm lightly.  “You honestly don’t think Penny and I talk about our sex lives?”  He blanches at this, mortified.  _Good.  Serves him right, the smug arsehole._   Before he can protest, I add, “I just don’t want to tell more people, not until I’m sure it’s here to stay.  I’ve been… getting better at adjusting to being Normal and I know she’d probably be more heartbroken than me if it doesn’t work out.”  I’ve been working on something my magickal therapist calls coping and have been recovering steadily, but I know I just can’t handle a disappointed Penny on top of everything else.  Plus, okay, maybe it is a little… too close for comfort.  She has a mind for figuring out how things work and I’d rather her not get too involved in thinking about the mechanics of Baz and me doing… this.  She’d probably dream up experiments to put us through.  I’d gladly comply, but I’d rather not report back.

 

“That’s fair.  It’s your magic.  It’s up to you,” he replies.  I know he’s willing to go along with however I want to handle it, but I know he’s likely displeased at the loss of a collaboration with Penny’s genius.  He stares through me and into the floor, his brow set.  I halfway expect Baz to whirl out a whiteboard and for him to begin writing “What We Know” in his elegant script.  He straightens quickly, as if pulled by a string, and I know he’s got something.  “Should we try?” he asks.

 

“Try what?  You want to go again already?” I respond, moving forward to start.

 

“No, you numpty,” he sneers, rolling his eyes.  “And I thought I was the one with the one-track mind when it came to snogging.   I _meant_ ,” he enunciates, “should we try a spell?”

 

I freeze.  I don’t know how to respond.  “But I don’t have my wand on me,” I protest, grateful for the excuse.  I both do and don’t want to.  And it’s not a lie – my wand is sitting in a trunk in my closet collecting dust.

 

“Use mine,” he counters smoothly.

 

“But Penny told me that magickal artifacts only work well if someone within the same family uses them.  That’s why she thought mine was so touchy.  It belonged to the Mage.”  I’m biding time and we both know it.  We’re both going to want to test this eventually, but I feel protective of it.  I don’t want it to go. 

 

“You bloody well _are_ my family, Snow,” he huffs impatiently.  “We already know our magic’s compatible.  That much has been proven.  What could go wrong?  If you’re not meant to have it, it’ll likely fizzle out eventually anyway.”

 

He knows just the right thing to say to strike a chord.  As far as Penny’s figured, I was born a Normal and was never meant to have magic in the first place.  I know Baz thinks that’s a load of codswallop though.  He says the magickal community has more opportunity for scandals as there are so few of us and we’re more close-knit.  He thinks it’s entirely possible for my mother to have given me up if the conditions were dire.  That both does and doesn’t make me feel better about my parentage. 

 

I take a shaky breath to settle myself.  “Okay,” I agree evenly, but I’m terrified.  What if I break his wand in two or if I spell the flat on fire? 

 

He fishes in his trouser pockets and I take the opportunity to appreciate the view as he strains forward on his knees, arse flexing as I ogle him.  I might be anxious, but hey, I’m still human. 

 

He turns, presenting me with his wand.  My fingers tremble and he places a steadying hand on my forearm in a reversal of the time we fought the dragon at Watford.  I still don’t dare aim a spell at another living thing and set my sights on a questionable string of fluid visible on the floorboards instead.  “ ** _Clean as a whistle_**!” I cast, and the spill evaporates.  It works, likely better than my magic ever has, the spell coming out solid and clean (uh, as a whistle), predictable.   But I can feel my magic pop and it’s gone in the next moment, spent up.   

 

My head falls and I’m grieving the loss of my magic again.  I knew to temper my hopes and I expected as much, but I’m defeated all the same.  “Do you think it will come back?” I wonder.

 

He moves close, encircling me in his arms.  He drops a reassuring kiss onto my curls, then to my shoulder and to the side of my mouth.  “I hope so,” he whispers, as he rubs the velvet of my wing.  Then he barks a laugh.

 

“What now?” I challenge testily.  What could possibly be humorous about any of this?

 

“I know this is the biggest case of wrong place, wrong time, but there’s really only one way to find out,” he replies with a wink. 

 

I find the nearest pillow and thump him.

 

_____________________

 

I’m attempting to study for finals, but I’m losing focus fast.  It’d be far too easy to give up and join Baz.  He’s curled around me in my bed, sleeping peacefully as he uses me as his own personal heater.  Baz is always so bloody cold (vampire) and I really don’t mind sharing my warmth (I’d do anything to make him feel more human), but I can barely move my arms to turn a page for worry of waking him.  It’s like sharing a bed with a kitten.  A gorgeous kitten with sharp teeth who loves to play fight, but is secretly cuddly and gentle underneath their prickly veneer.  And the kitten is one who you’re maybe a little resentful of, as they’ve aced all their finals and get to just rest as they drape themselves all over you.  _Maybe we should get a kitten – Baz would be so cute with one._   Merlin, I definitely can’t concentrate.

 

It’s hard to when I can only seem to think about what we’ve done just earlier tonight, how we’ve been jumping each other like rabbits lately, practically _fondling_ each other every chance we get.  Just the hint of a heated glance is enough to dissolve ordinary conversation into a rabid chorus of grunts and groans.  This past summer, Penny went to America on holiday to visit Micah for a fortnight and the situation quickly devolved into an all-out shagfest.  We’d ravaged the entirety of the flat, including desecrating Penny’s beloved armchair.  I’d surely be on the receiving end of some nasty spellwork if she only knew, but thank God she’d come back to find it in one piece following some inventive spelling of the rear leg by Baz, none the wiser.   

 

I’d hoped we’d have gotten it out of our systems in time for the start of uni, but it just made things worse.  I’m hooked, hopeless, a flat-out addict.  A Baz-dict.  I’m taking some general courses to see what sticks, but I’d rather study Baz: his brilliant mind, the chiseled curve of his high cheekbones, his thoughts and feelings and preferences about anything and everything, from his favorite brand of salt and vinegar crisps (Walkers, obviously) to his complicated relationship with his father.  All of it. 

 

Or maybe I’d rather learn from Baz, have him be my Professor.  I got a taste of it when he educated me on the art of giving a blowjob while Penny was away, and it was probably the single most erotic experience of my life.  Just thinking of the weight of Baz on my tongue is enough to make me…

 

 _Anyway.  I’ve got to focus on my exams, so enough of that for now_ , I think, as the familiar heat of wanting Baz coils inside me.  If I can’t have Baz, at least Psychology’s half-decent at holding my attention.  Lately, I’ve idly been considering continuing my studies to become a social worker so that I can help other children in the system like me.  It’s especially compelling when we cover material relevant to everyday life, though.  Just last month, we learned about Classical Conditioning and I’d lost all pretense of listening further, distractedly analyzing my Pavlovian response to Baz’s trifecta of routine spells: **Silence is golden, Safety first** and **Slippery when wet**.  As soon as I hear him begin casting, my mouth waters indecently, just like one of Pavlov’s dogs.  Baz must have some strange power over me that I would willingly compare myself to a dog, but I don’t know that I care anymore.  I’m too far gone for him.

 

We’ve clearly been going at it and not just as a means to bring back my magic, although that is an admittedly convenient side-effect.  With every encounter, my magic grows stronger and lasts for longer stretches.  I’ve gone back to using the Mage’s wand and it seems to fit my magic flawlessly now, like it’s a natural extension of my hand.  Baz says this is what it’s supposed to feel like (it felt like, well, a clunky piece of wood before.  Maybe because I didn’t really need it due to the extent of my powers?  I’m not sure).  He’s been tutoring me privately in between romps when Penny’s at class (we can’t grope each other _all_ the time, I suppose).  Baz is awakening my magic, reminding me of spells and wand work I’d tried so hard to forget. 

 

He’s patient with me, not like how he was at Watford, when he’d just call me an idiot and laugh at my failed efforts.  When I managed to cast **Some like it hot** on his tea perfectly, the contents remaining placid instead of bubbling up and out, he whoops and grins like he just scored the winning goal on the pitch.  I’ve relearned all the basics and have advanced to ones I’d never been able to try before, including the dreaded **There’s nothing to see here**.  It’s not my spell of preference when it comes to hiding my wings, but it will have to do for now, even if it means accidental elbows to the ribs and having to occasionally demand attention from others.  If Penny or Baz weren’t around to spell me before, I’d been trapped in the flat, alone and restless, and this at least gives me my freedom.  I’d have to tell Penny in order to learn **These aren’t the droids you’re looking for** as Baz is apparently the only person in all of Britain to have never seen Star Wars, but I’m still not ready yet.   My magic has certainly improved, but it’s fickle and I haven’t fully adjusted to it.  It often feels just within reach, right at the edges of my fingertips.  I just have to be patient. 

 

Luckily for me, I think to myself as I lean down to place a kiss to Baz’s hairline, practice makes perfect (in more ways than one).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I brought this filth into the world and that I'm sharing it with you. I'm disturbed, ask anyone.
> 
> P.S. Miss Baz's POV? I do too. You'll hear from him next. :)


	4. Part Four

BAZ

 

We’ve survived finals and it’s been days since we’ve had the luxury of doing much more than studying together.  I’ve been longing for Simon so badly I’ve been _aching_ with it, yearning for him in the same way my body demands air and blood.   He must reciprocate the sentiment, as we’ve hastily disrobed each other less than five minutes into our reunion.  We’re pressed together from abdomen to chest right on Fiona’s sofa (sorry, not sorry, Fiona), Simon riding on top as he straddles my thighs.  I’ve taken us both into my hand, pulling us off into what would be an embarrassingly swift and frenzied climax had we both not been so desperate for each other.  The now-familiar _pop_ of his magic’s electricity is in the air as he lets go, pulling fistfuls of my hair and panting heavily into the hollow of my throat.      

 

He slumps against me, resting his forehead on my chest, and my lap is full of Simon Snow as I count the seconds between his heartbeats, drowsily running my fingers from his freckled shoulders to his forearms.  He lets out a satisfied sigh, continuously tracing the shape of a heart onto my ribcage as he raises his lips to mine and kisses me soundly.  I die again and again and again inside as I breathe his air in, dizzy off of his exhale.  I try to train my senses to focus on the slowing of his boiling blood in an effort to remain clearheaded, but I’m consumed by the totality of my devotion, the burn of the rightness of this, and by the flames of my silent hopes and fears and prayers. 

 

“Baz,” he says when we part, the fervency in his voice rushing straight to my brain and swiftly undoing my attempts at regaining my composure.  Simon could speak my name like this, warm and slow, for the rest of eternity, and I’d never tire of hearing it.  I target a mole on his cheek in an unspoken response before moving to seal a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  I don’t quite want to look at him right now, certain I’ll give away how much I’m in love with him.  Soon, maybe.  But not just yet. 

 

“What do you think would happen if we did it for real?” he blurts innocuously enough in that delightfully casual _Simon_ way of his. 

 

If my heart wasn’t already dead, I’d swear it stopped beating.  I blink and stare and blink at him again before deciding I’d clearly heard what I wanted to hear.  “Pardon?” I manage.

 

The tips of his ears bloom red, but he presses on again, enunciating slowly.  “Do you… do you ever think about what would happen if we… you know,” he motions between us demonstratively, “went all the way?”

 

 _Only all the bloody time_ , I think, still incapable of doing anything other than gawping at him.

 

“I mean,” he soldiers on, “I want to so much it’s killing me aside from all this, but I can, uhm, I can feel my magic… calling for it in a way.  Like maybe it wants it as much as I do, like it wants to complete things too, like it wants _more_.  It’s _right_ there, it’s _ugh_ , it’s so _close_.  I can feel it in my bones, the restlessness.  Like my magic’s longing for us to be joined together,” he finishes, cheeks aflame.  “Does that sound mad?  You have to feel it too, right?”

 

Par for the course, it’s Simon who would be the one to first breathe the natural end stage progression of this... sex magic theory into life, reckless as ever.  Of course I feel it too, but I’ve always felt called to Simon and the green haze of his magic from the moment I met him.  Is it my magic or is it just me?  Or some of both?  My desire for him magnifies by the day, but isn’t that normal?   I don’t know.

 

My brain shuts off, unable to respond to the very thing I want most, synapses firing feebly.  Simon Snow _is_ trying to kill me, of this I’m finally certain, but at least the timing isn’t entirely disastrous.  Thank Crowley we’ve at least successfully concluded Fall Term or I’d have to explain to my extremely irate Father as to why I’d flunked my first semester of uni.  Somehow I don’t think _because I’ve been daydreaming about properly shagging my boyfriend_ would cut it, though the look on his face would be one for the ages.  Surely that’s all I’ll be able to think about now – I can already feel it settling in.  This _hypothesis_ is bound to drive me bloody insane, occupying my every waking thought and driving me to distraction. 

 

“Baz?” he prompts, drumming his fingertips on my shoulder.    

 

I’d better say something, anything, and soon.  I’ve truly gone ‘round the twist if I’m thinking of Father at a time like this.  “You’re… you’re sure?”  I stammer belatedly.  “Gay… sex is even gayer than ballroom dancing, you know.  And you haven’t even figured out if you’re gay or not.”  _Well_ , that certainly wasn’t my brightest response.  And I’ve idiotically veered somewhere along the lines of self-sabotage to boot. 

 

“Of course I’m bloody well sure, you numpty,” he huffs, shoving off and pressing his arms across his chest.  “What do you think we’ve been doing all this time anyway?  Playing cribbage?”

 

“You’ve been hanging around Fiona far too much lately,” I grouse, searching for the usual comfort in the curl of my lip.  As much as it secretly pleases me, I never could have predicted that fast friendship either.  I’ve concluded that Pitches must be hardwired to adore Snows – that’s the only reason that I’ve come up with so far to explain as to why Fiona and I are so damned obsessed. 

 

“Well, I think I'm probably bi.  I don’t know and I’ve decided I don’t really care.  It’s not like I need to test it out.  I’m really only interested in you, if you hadn’t noticed,” he counters as he levels his jaw, determined as ever. 

 

“Simon,” I sigh, running a hand through my hair.  “As much as I’m absolutely taken with the idea, what happens if it doesn’t work?  We don’t really know anything about this and we could be completely off base.  We’ve got to temper our expectations.  I don’t want to let you down, or your magic either.  Disappointing you sexually is my personal nightmare.  I’d rather stake myself.”  My fifth year self would have me institutionalized for my reluctance, but as much as my body lusts for Simon, my heart will always win out.  I won’t let myself be the one to dash his hopes.

 

“You’re.  Not.  Listening,” he argues from around clenched teeth.  “That’s not the point.  Maybe it works.  If so, fantastic.  If not, well, getting shagged by my stupidly gorgeous and annoyingly concerned boyfriend is a pretty damn good consolation prize.”

 

“You… what?  You’d still want… with me?” I ask, dumbfounded.  I can’t make sense out of anything he’s saying.  Have I been spelled into a daze?  I’ve half a mind to ask him to hit me with a **Good as new** , but his irritation is palpable, growing thick in the confines of the lounge.

 

“Who else but you?  I’m not using you for my bloody magic,” he shouts, tail lashing erratically in exasperation.  “Are you thick?  For God’s sake, even though you are a git, I must really have a problem since I somehow want you anyway.”

 

“Simon,” I murmur, reaching for his tail and winding around my wrist until it stills.  “You know I don’t think that.  So long as I’ve known you, you’ve never abused your magic, or anybody or anything who didn’t deserve it for that matter.  I’ve just… I’ve wanted you for ages and most of that time, you were unattainable.  You might as well have been on another planet.  I wasn’t allowed to look at you, let alone think about you actually feeling the same way.  Sometimes I forget that you could ever want me back in the same ways I want you.”

 

“Well, get used to it then,” he retorts, rolling his eyes before breaking into a grin.  “Where’s some of that Pitch arrogance when you need it?”

 

“Dissolved.  I’m afraid I’m without my usual powers where you’re involved,” I answer softly, unraveling his tail.    

 

He snakes its tip forward, wedging it underneath my hand as he leans in closer, kissing me slowly.  “Of course I want you,” he breathes.  “In every way there is.  And Baz,” he teases, ruffling my hair despite my complaints, “try not to be such a numpty.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love when our boys are clueless. But they're starting to get it, I think?


	5. Part Five

SIMON

 

It’s Christmas Eve and Penny’s just left for home, though I’ll be following her soon enough tomorrow morning.  I reckoned the best gift I could give the Bunces after last year’s debacle was a head start on trying to enjoy the holiday before I come crashing in to inevitability spoil it.  I stumbled and bumbled over their stacks of books and rows of papers prior to having wings and a tail and I can only imagine her mum’s displeasure now that I have new appendages to worry about controlling.  Her parents assured me I’m still welcome despite scarring their children for life last Christmas when I’d collapsed on their front steps looking like the Devil himself, but I’m not trying to test the limits of their hospitality this year. 

 

Although we live together, I miss her somehow.  As adamant as I am that I don’t want to tell Penny until I’ve got my magic fully sorted, I still don’t like keeping a secret this significant from her.  And I’m so tired of actively having to control my magic, of smashing it down and away when I’m with her instead of just letting it be.  I honestly can’t believe she hasn’t suspected a thing to date, but uni’s been keeping her busy and I’ve always confided in her without her having to pry before.  I want to tell her _everything_ and I know she’d have an answer, or at least an outsider’s perspective on all of this, but I just want to try this one last thing with Baz on my own first. 

 

And I wish I could ask her other related things that have been concerning me too, like _is it normal to fall so fast for someone that is almost hurts?_ She obviously knows how I feel about Baz, but not about the added effect his magic has on me, that its burn has sparked the renewal of mine.  Lately, the stifling smoke of our magics combining has been growing stronger, clouding my thinking and obscuring my vision.  I’m hot for him beyond the physical, like I have a fever and he’s the medicine and my body is craving the cure.  I’d be more frightened, but my magic knows the answer: to jump straight into the pyre to walk among the flames without fear, just like I’d done nearly a year ago. 

 

If the Bunce’s Christmas last year was a debacle, the Grimm family’s was a flat-out tragedy.  Although my magickal therapist has helped to assuage some of the guilt, thinking about my path of accidental destruction still makes me wince, especially when I relive the memory of inadvertently sucking the magic from their estate dry.  What a colossally dreadful way to muck up your first impression with your boyfriend’s parents – talk about mortifying.  Baz had invited me to Oxford nevertheless, but he’d accepted my veto without much argument when he’d noticed my tail was literally hanging between my legs. 

 

Besides, we’ve got plans for our first Christmas together regardless.  He’ll be home shortly tonight and will drive back to Oxford in the morning, then will meet me at Penny’s tomorrow evening.  I’d told him he should have uninterrupted family time, especially with all that driving back and forth, but Baz wasn’t having it to begin with.  Especially because we’d since agreed upon a date.  To try out my sex magic theory.  Which just so happens to be today.  Which also explains why I’ve nearly paced a hole in the carpeting, created from equal parts anxiety and excitement.  

 

According to Baz’s research, magickal anniversaries are a powerful thing.  When he’d first explained his findings, we’d been in bed after a particularly strenuous session involving the staircase.   Baz had spelled away the rug burn on my knees and was massaging my legs for good measure (another brilliant skill of his, go figure).  By the time I was clearheaded enough to understand his analysis, he was working on my feet.

 

“Okay, hear me out,” he’d said, pulling on each toe with flourish as I rolled my eyes.  Baz always had a flair for the dramatic.  “So life-altering events can reverberate within a magician’s magickal core.  Right?”  I’d nodded too drowsily for his tastes, prompting him to run a finger along the underside of my foot.  It jerked up involuntarily, almost hitting him in his protesting face.  He’d squawked in annoyance, flinging backwards with a lurch. 

 

“Would have served you right,” I’d teased, smug.  “Karma and all that.”

 

“Do you what a bloody foot massage or not, Snow?” he’d retorted testily.    

 

“Do bats fly?”

 

“Not this one.”

 

“Baz, please, of course I do,” I’d whined.  “It’s not my fault you have me so worn out.  I’m listening now, I promise.”  He’d peered from up around my feet, raising his eyebrows in silent assessment.  “I’m awake!  I swear.  Carry on, Baz.  Don’t make me beg.”

 

“Oh, I’d like to see you beg, Snow,” he’d practically purred, settling back in between my legs with a look one could only describe as lecherous. 

 

 “If you don’t get on with your investigation results now,” I’d sighed forcefully, trampling down the lust in my stomach, “I don’t know that we ever will.  Focus, Pitch.”

 

“Fine.  Maybe later,” he’d winked as I’d shivered helplessly in automatic anticipation.  He placed his attention back to my instep and pressed firmly.   “As I was saying before I was so _rudely_ interrupted, commemorating a life-altering event on the anniversary of said event can strengthen a magical bond.  And because your magic seems tied to our physical connection, it could theoretically heighten your abilities if we tried then.  Wouldn’t you know it, we have an anniversary coming up.”

 

“So us messing about is considered an anniversary now?”

 

 “It wasn’t just _messing about_ to me.”  He pressed on my heel more forcefully.  “And yes, I’d thought it was,” he added, voice soft.

 

Shite.  My stupid mouth was still always getting me into trouble, especially when something surprised me.  Lucky for Baz, he just grew tongue-tied when he was caught off guard.  I shouted out the first dense thing that came into my thick skull.  “I didn’t mean ‘ _messing about_ ’ messing about!” I’d pleaded as his expression cleared and his brows unknit.  That really wasn’t what I’d meant and he knew it.  “Snogging like mad, then?” I’d corrected feebly.  He still had an annoyed look, but I knew it was a façade and that he was quietly amused by my struggle.  He was long used to my verbal blunders and just didn’t like to let me off too easily on principle.  “And of course,” I’d cajoled.  “December 24th, early morning.  Probably the best day of my life - I’m not likely to forget it.  Haven’t been able to get you out of my head since.” 

 

He smiled, bending down to kiss my big toe.  I’d gasped in response, arching towards him reflexively.  “Interesting,” he drawled with a smirk.  “I’ll file this one away for future reference.”

 

“That is convenient though,” I’d observed, curling my toes.  “Especially for you.”

 

“Your toes?  For me?”

 

“No!  I mean, maybe.  I don’t know – if you happen to like toes, then sure.  But you’re a big sap.  You’d want to do it on our anniversary anyway.”

 

“Am not!” he’d spluttered, blushing.  Baz is majorly cute when he blushes.  He thinks I can’t tell, what with him being a vampire and all, but I’ve picked up on the difference.  It’s probably indiscernible to anyone other than me, but he changes from pure alabaster to a warmer ivory.  It’s how I know it’s him and not Penny who ate the last mint Aero bar.

 

“Uh-huh.  As if you’re not a softie with an affinity for the grandiose,” I murmured under my breath.  He’d tweaked my toe in retaliation and when I’d objected, he’d kissed it better (with tongue), effectively ending our discussion.

 

I’ve always been easily distracted, but now I’m wondering if I should have paid better attention or asked more questions.  Something.  Anything.  I mean, we haven’t even talked about _who_ will be doing _what_.  I think I know what _I_ want – my body is all but screaming it at me, but shouldn’t this have been settled before now?  Or is that not something people do?  Do you just fall right into it?  I follow a trail of condensation with my finger down the window as the beginning flakes of snowfall float past.  I don’t know.

 

The front door opens, halting my contemplation and ushering out my morose mood.  Baz steps in, shaking speckles of snow from his hair as he unwinds his scarf, and I’m instantly at ease from his presence alone, no longer apprehensive.  He sheds his coat and scans the room, smiling as he spots me.  His hair glistens as the flurries melt in his dark strands and I’d swear there’s just a little bit of pink in his cheeks from the chill outside.  My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him, suited and booted in last year’s green-black ensemble.  My stomach knifes in arousal, but I’m eerily calm.  We’ll get through this the same as we always have.  Together.

 

“Snow,” he announces.  I’m not positive if he’s addressing me or the weather.  It’s hard to tell this time of year.

 

“Pitch,” I decide.  “Milking our anniversary much?”

 

“Am I?  How, exactly?” he cooly inquires in feigned ignorance.  His attire isn’t a coincidence; we both know it.

 

I motion to his getup with a wave of my hand.  “You look stunning in that suit.  You have to know what it did to me then, and what you’re still doing to me now.  It’s really not fair.” 

 

“I’ll exploit any advantage when it comes to you,” he retorts, striding closer.  “Always have, always will.”  Before I can blink, his arms are around my shoulders, drawing me close in a deep kiss.  I sigh into it, the most relaxed I’ve been all day.  “Crowley, Snow,” his voice is low, tickling my ear.  “Is that your Sword of Mages or are you just happy to see me?”

 

“Baz,” I complain, swatting his arm.  “I’ve been thinking about us, about _you_ all day and you’re here now looking like this.  Can you really blame me?”

 

“Never,” he answers, bending down to link an arm under the back of my knees.  He picks me up and drops us on the couch neatly, my legs around his waist.  _Git_.  Baz is only three inches taller than me and thinks he can just pluck me from the ground whenever he feels like it.  He’s a bloody show off, but I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

 

 “Good day?” I ask between kisses. 

 

“Yes.”  He breaks to place a kiss on the mole beside my mouth.  “Better now with you.  How was yours?  Did you see Penny off okay?”

 

I laugh, targeting the expanse of throat adjacent to his dress shirt with my lips.  “Already called to tell me she can’t wait to see us tomorrow.  If I’m honest,” I say, stilling my efforts as I pause to straighten his tie, “I spent most of today hoping we’ll have good news to share.”

 

“Simon,” he sighs as he sticks a finger under his collar, shifting his shoulders.  “I really hope this works too, but…,” he rolls the fabric of his tie nervously, winding and unwinding it into itself.

 

“I know.  I know.  _I know_ ,” I interrupt.  “You don’t have to say it.  Rationally, I’m not expecting anything.  I can tell my brain that all I want, and believe me, I have, but it doesn’t mean my heart wants to listen.”

 

He lets his tie fall and looks up at me with eyes grey as iron.  “That’s a plight I’m familiar with,” he replies, reaching to pull me closer to him, his hands stroking soothing circles on my wings.  “Sometimes the two get to link up.  The unthinkable happened for me a year ago when I got you.  I want the impossible for you too.  More than anything.”

 

“It wasn’t as hopeless as you’d think.  I was always obsessed with you.  Still am.” 

 

“Then we match,” he says simply, his lips meeting mine. 

 

I’ve never been good with words, but I have to tell him this.  I press back more forcefully, summoning my emotions and pouring them from my lips, kissing him with all the words I’ve said and the ones I want to but haven’t said yet.  Our tongues meet and his grip tightens, his hands traveling to wind themselves in my hair.  I’m so intent on conveying the depth of my feelings wordlessly that I flinch when his fingers move to toy with the hem of my jumper. 

 

He pulls back, searching my face.  “Alright?” he questions.

 

“I – uh.  Yes.  No.  I think?”

 

“Snow,” he chides, and I know what’s coming next.  “Use your words.”

 

I don’t like expressing myself with words because I trip over them often, but I know Baz needs to hear me so I’ll try.  “So, ugh. Okay.”  I’m flustered and it shows, so I restart.  “I know we’d said about tonight -”

 

“Simon,” he interjects, face stricken and pale.  “I know we’d made plans, but if you’ve changed your mind, we don’t have to.  I know it’s scary and it’s kind of weird and it can be a lot with everything you’ve been through and I get it.  I’m content to just sit here with you and watch telly.”

 

“But I haven’t changed my mind,” I assert, nonplussed. 

 

“You haven’t?”

 

“No?”

 

“But I’d thought… when you…”

 

“Still no.  Watching telly wasn’t really what I’d had in mind for tonight.”

 

“Ah.  I see... Well, okay.  What else then?”

 

“You tell me to use my words and then you interrupt me.  At least I’ve figured out vampires don’t have the power of telepathy,” I gripe, rolling my eyes.  There’d been a particular annoying week where he’d tried to convince me otherwise.  “Speaking of, this isn’t going to be scary unless this was all some sort of long-con and you’re planning on draining me.  And this isn’t a lot for me.  It’s not enough, actually.  I want to be as close to you as possible.”  I’m blushing now, I know it, but I forge on, “But it is a little weird because I don’t know what to do.  Like, at all.  Besides the obvious.  Which I still don’t know _how_ to do, unless I use my imagination and maybe then it does circle back to scary and a lot.”  I feel better letting it all out.  Slightly stupid, but better. 

 

“Simon,” he starts, linking his fingers in mine and leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on my cheek.  “I’m not thirsty and if I’d wanted to kill you, I’d have gotten it over with by this point.”  I smile and he kisses the corner of my mouth.  “And hopefully it’s the right amount of enough soon.”  He moves his lips to brush against mine squarely.  “Lastly, no, I haven’t done this before either, but you’re in safe hands.  I’ve been reading -” and at this, I cut him off with a snigger.

 

“Reading?!?”  I can’t help it.  Penny and Baz love their research, but I hadn’t imagined this.  Picturing Baz perched over his laptop with his Twinings and digestives while he perused a “Wiki How” article was wildly hilarious.  But also, duh, why hadn’t I thought of that too?

 

“I told you Fiona held me hostage to some sex talk.  Well, she’d followed it up with a book and -”

 

“Reading?” I repeat.  “A book?”  He falters, lips falling open in bewilderment as he shakes his head in disbelief.  “What was it?  _Gay Sex for Dummies_?”  He frowns at me like a cat who’s been put out and I’m really laughing now, so hard I’m crying.  “God, I love you,” I marvel, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hands.

 

He’d been mid-sneer but stopped suddenly, frozen.

 

 _Oops_.  There’s my mouth getting me into trouble again, right on schedule.  But it’s true.  And I can’t help but feel like this isn’t the sort of thing that should just be blurted out, so I try a second time.  “I meant it,” I confess, straight-faced and sober now.  “I love you, Baz.  How could I not?”

 

 

BAZ

 

“Baz, _Baz_.  I know you’re a second away from going all funny, so I just wanted to tell you that you heard me right.  I love you.  For real.  It’s not a joke.  This is really happening.” 

 

Simon’s voice when he tells me he loves me makes all of my favorite Mozart compositions sound like trash.  It feels like I’m stuck in an adagio tempo, my mind sluggish and slow at comprehending his words.  I hear familiar violin solos in my head, but edit them extemporaneously, rearranging them to add my own instructions.  Pianissimo and dolce.  Soft and sweet, gentle and delicate.  Like this moment right now.

 

His hand’s in front of my face, fingers wiggling.  “Still here?  If I’d known I could shut you up this way, I’d have tried this ages ago.”  He bites his lip and trails his fingers through his hair.  “Baz, seriously.  You don’t have to say it back if you’re not there yet.  Just bloody say something so I know you’re fine.”

 

Crescendo.  Loud and clear.

 

“Of course I love you,” I profess, my fingers moving to still his.  “In this life and the next.  In any universe.  In any dimension.” 

 

 

 

SIMON

 

I love you.  I love you.  I love you. 

 

There’s one for every heartbeat.  Surely he can hear it.

 

I want to kiss the question off of Baz’s face.  So I do.  And I don’t stop kissing.

 

 

BAZ

 

We’ve left a trail of devastation in the hall, clothing strewn on the floor and picture frames askew.  We’d ricocheted off the walls as we staggered towards Simon’s bedroom, hands scrabbling at each other’s collars, lips stopping to part only when absolutely necessary. 

 

Each kiss with Simon feels like a promise.  And I don’t ever want to break the promises I’ve made to him.  

 

 

SIMON

 

A year ago, Baz’s mouth was a sneer as it spat insults at me with its acid tongue.  Tonight, it’s lips that curve upwards, swollen from kisses and the brush of soft words whispered against my skin.

 

The changes a year can bring. 

 

A year.

 

_Shite._

  

BAZ

 

“Baz!” Simon sits up with a shout, spine straightening in an instant as his eyes skim the room frantically. 

 

“Crowley, what’s gotten into you?”

 

“Not you, clearly!  Time, the time… what’s the bloody time?”

 

“Hang on,” I call, leaning towards the bedside table and closer to the watch I’d removed earlier.  Fuck.  I’d been so wrapped up in Simon I’d forgotten we were on a timeline of sorts.  If it was any darker, I’d have to strain to see the hands, but being a vampire does have some pros to the cons. 

 

“Well?” I can feel the sudden puff of his breath as it rushes against my shoulder.

 

“Patience is a virtue, you know,” I remark, turning back to face him.  “10:59."

 

“Okay,” he exhales, momentarily resting a hand on his brow in relief.  “We can do this.  Plenty of time.  But we need to make a game plan,” he orders, as his hands move quickly to clap together.  Adorable. 

 

“A game plan?  What is this, football?”

 

“We’re in the second half and the clock’s not stopping, so yeah, I reckon we’re playing.”

 

“Do I still get to use my hands to touch the ball?” I leer at him with the intent of making him blush.  It works.

 

“I’m serious, Pitch.  What are we doing here?  Do I have to come out and actually say it?” He closes his eyes and grits his teeth.  “I can’t believe I’m asking this.  Who’s the forward and who’s the goalie?”

 

“I’d say _you’re_ being rather forward, Snow.”  The look he shoots me in response is withering at best.  If he still had his uncontrollable non-verbal pre-Humdrum powers, it just might have killed me.  “Fine,” I sigh, looking to the ceiling.  Merlin, Mordred and Morgana, this is awkward. 

 

I’d spent so much time at Watford sulking around the Catacombs in the grey dust of my misery, tortured by my abnormality.  I’d so desperately wished to be human, I’d invented countless pitiful scenarios where I’d miraculously awaken one day, whole and healthy and happily infatuated with Agatha Wellbelove.   A gay vampire, _really_?  As if being an aberration wasn’t enough, I had to be a monster too.  It was doubly isolating.  There was truly nobody like me at Watford.  Not a soul.  I’d felt an outcast, an oddity, marked.  Well, I bloody well _am_ I guess, with two faded puncture marks at the base of my skull.  It’s why I wear my hair long - even Simon doesn’t know they exist.  It’s not the kind of thing you go showing off to your boyfriend, as if he needs any additional reminders as to why we’re so different and shouldn’t ever work. 

 

Too often, I’d pleaded in the darkness, begging to at least be straight.   If I fancied birds, it’d at least be easier, especially during times like this one.  It’d be decided without any deciding involved at all, like breathing involuntarily without having to think about expanding your lungs, as natural as placing your left hand in its left glove.  But then again, if I were normal, I wouldn’t have Simon.  I can deny being a vampire – it’s not my true nature, but I can’t ever deny him.  I won’t.  And I’d rather think and stress and fret about all of this than anything else, gloves be damned.

 

 “I thought I’d leave it up to you,” I finally offer.  “After all, I’m the one who’s definitely all in on the gay stuff.”

 

“And I’m not?” he huffs, raising his arms to cross against his chest in a challenge.

 

“Look, I just don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”  My hair falls to my forehead and I flick it back so I can see him.  “I’ve wanted to jump you for ages, for so long I should probably be embarrassed.  This is newer for you.  I want to do whatever you want to do.  End of story.”

 

“I trust you,” he says, jaw pushed forward, brave as ever.  “And I want you to.  Besides,” he adds, “you’re the one who read up on it anyways.”  He presses his lips together and I can tell he’s trying not to take the piss again, although a small smile breaks through.  _Git._   I love him.

 

“Simon, you’re sure?  It might not be easy and it might hurt.  I’ll do everything I can, but wouldn’t you rather -”

 

He cuts me off with an impatient frown.  “I’ve told you without telling you in a million different ways already.  My magic… it wants it this way.  I don’t understand it, but it’s like I’m the needle and you’re the thread and your magic is pulling me through towards you.  My magic wants you… inside of me, filling me, like you complete me, like you complete… it.  I feel it in yours too.”

 

He’s really blushing now, face crimson.  I’d be more tempted to reach out to stroke the blood from his cheeks, if only his glare wasn’t so fierce.

 

“I don’t -”

 

“I do.  I felt it as soon as you walked in the door today.  And I wasn’t afraid.  Even our magics know it.”

 

Simon hadn’t been able to share in this experience, but magicians are raised to trust in their magic above anything else.  The expression “magic knows best” had been practically drilled into my head as a child.  Like so many sayings of ours, I’d heard the Normal equivalent about mothers and had always wondered if it preceded our version, or if it was the other way around.  There were the other oft-repeated phrases too: “go with your gut/magic”, “actions/magic speak(s) louder than words”, “listen to your heart/magic.”  Pitches are as rational as they come and I’d normally scoff at an insistence on relying so heavily in something so intangible, but one only has to feel magic to know its strength.  Magic is undeniable, is intuition, is life.

 

But for something so revered and essential to our society, there are still some aspects of magic that can’t be explained.  After Simon sacrificed his magic, I’d spent hours bent over every promising text at Watford.  I’d happened upon an article that likened magic to a metaphysical extension of the soul, which was why it was so tragic for Simon to lose his and as to why it’s so intoxicating to think of our magics communicating with each other now.  I’d been wracked with nerves all day, imagining all the ways this could go horribly wrong, but as soon as I’d spotted his shy grin and stepped into him, it had all dissipated, as if some rightness had been uncoiled within me.   What Simon’s describing speaks directly to my blackened heart.  I’ve been more than thrilled to shag his magic back into him these past few months, but this is every magician’s childhood dream: soul mates, magickal compatability, true love.

 

“Baz,” he clears his throat.  He knows I have a tendency to drift.  He takes my hand, his eyes open and insistent.  “I think it’s louder for me, probably because you’ve always had yours, but I can hear it now.  Try.” 

 

I close my eyes and listen, _really_ listen.  I can hear the faint whisper of my magic in the dark, drawing me closer to his.  In the stillness, I can feel his magic reaching out to mine, inviting me inside.  I’d like to explore this idea more, especially as I’ve been feeling the same (but opposite) way as Simon, but it’s too dangerous now.  I’m afraid I’ll come right here in the sheets without ever having touched him.      

 

“Crowley.  I – yeah.  Okay.”  I scrub at my face, pressing in on my temples.  “You have no idea how much I want that too.  It’s all I can bloody think about.”  I pull him closer by the curls at the nape of his neck, kissing him deeply.  “I was so hard today at just the thought of you,” I groan, moving my lips to a patch of freckles on his shoulder.  “Having to wait all day, knowing we’d be doing this later.  Torture, having to hide a stiffy from your family on Christmas Eve.” 

 

I move a hand to his erection and his laugh catches in his throat, morphing into a strangled growl as I twist it from base to tip.  He surges forward onto his knees, pinning me to the bed as he moves to palm our lengths together.  “Like you said,” he murmurs into my ear as he ruts against me, his cock sliding against mine, thick and heavy and perfect.  “We match.  Because it’s all I could bloody think about too,” he finishes, biting my lower lip.  I moan into his mouth shamelessly, grasping at his arse in desperation as I grind my hips up and into him.

 

He pushes off abruptly, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.  “I… not yet.” 

 

I know we need to slow down, but the sight of him right now makes it nearly impossible.  He’s flushed from cheeks to chest, curls tumbled and wild, his cock straining and needy.  His lips are swollen and full, throat tight with determination.  The cords in his neck are visible until he swallows obnoxiously.  _Fuck_.  I’ve learned to control my fangs for the most part, but my mouth begins to fill with saliva.

 

“Should I?  Should I turn around?” he asks, his blush spreading to his ears as he rises onto his hands and presents me with his arse.  As much as I’d normally welcome the sight of Simon on all fours, cock bobbing up between his muscled legs, his tail standing at attention straight in the air, I’ve got other plans.

 

But then again, I’d be remiss if I passed this opportunity by without indulging myself for just a moment.  I run my hands along the soft skin of his upper thighs, brushing against his erection slightly as I move upwards, trailing the curves of his arse with the faintest traces of my fingertips.  He whimpers and I graze the swell of his right cheek with my bottom teeth as I lightly strike the left cheek with an open palm.  His arms tremble and he lowers his head to the duvet as he thrusts his arse back further into my face.   

 

Merlin.  My vision’s gone blurry and the blood that isn’t already trapped in my cock runs to my head.  I’m tempted to ravage him from here, to drag my tongue punishingly slow from his balls to his arse until he’s as dizzy as I am, until he begs for it, but this isn’t how I want it.  It’s our first time and it’s our anniversary and I need to look him in his boring blue eyes as I move inside him.  _Okay._  I guess I _am_ a bloody romantic.  But I also know him.  He’d never admit if he wasn’t alright through all of this, and I can’t carry on unless I can read his face through every step.

 

“Baz, are you going to…?” he trails off, wrenching his neck at an impossible angle to look back at me.  I won’t have it.

 

“Not like this,” I respond simply, circling my arms around his waist and pulling him into me, then flipping him onto his back in one breath.

 

“Show off,” he grouses, flexing his wings experimentally.

 

“You love it.  Are your wings comfortable like this?”

 

“Fine.  You always tuck them in right.  But Baz,” he asks, shifting his pelvis in an exploration.  “How is this going to work?”

 

“You forget that you’re with a world-renowned scholar of gay sex,” I tease, stopping to kiss his forehead as I lean for a pillow.  “Hips up,” I command, sliding it underneath him.  “Alright?” he nods in reply, sending curls sprawling across his pillow.

 

I’ve been poring over my copy of _The Gay Magician’s Guide to Sex_ (yes, this is really the title) like my life depends on it.  Simon’s always been able to get by on his unbridled enthusiasm, but I’m at my best when I immerse myself in the research.  He’s execution, but I’m theory.  I’ve always taken my studies seriously and must have read it cover to cover over a dozen times to date, double for the more interesting parts.  I could likely recite some sections to him now from memory if he wouldn’t laugh me right out of the bed.   

 

“Ready now?” he questions with the raise of an eyebrow.

 

“I can’t just stick it in there!” I gape, open-mouthed.  He really has no idea.  “You really think this,” I motion to my erection, “can fit inside that,” I point to his arse, “without a bit of prep work?”    

 

“I don’t know!” he yells, fists whacking the pillow in exasperation.  “You’ve done the usual spells.”

 

“It’s not a matter of being lubricated.  Don’t be a numpty.  You’ve got to be… stretched.”

 

“Stretched,” he repeats with another dramatic gulp, eyes wide.  

 

“It’s not like it sounds.  My research says that there is spell for it, but it’s more effective if we do it manually.”  I’d drained an entire deer in preparation for tonight and I’m very likely reddening now too, but I continue.  “Is it okay if I… if I use my fingers?”

 

“You want to put your fingers… up my arse?” he startles, stealing a glance at my long, pale fingers.  “That’s…”

 

“I’ll spell them clean!” I promise at the same time he finishes his sentence.

 

“… Hot.”

 

 _Oh._ Crowley, I’m going to die and we haven’t even started yet.

 

I nod weakly and cast another **Slippery when wet** for good measure.  His eyes follow the movements of my hands and I bend over to kiss his lips, trapping his leaking cock against my abdomen as I suck on his tongue.  

 

“Baz, just… will you?  Yeah?” he groans, arching his groin into me.

 

I spread the lube to my index finger and pause over his entrance, looking up at him.  He tilts his head and waves me on impatiently so I proceed, gently pushing up into the first knuckle.  We both suck in a sharp breath as he clenches around me, then laugh at ourselves.

 

“You’ve… you’ve got your finger up my arse, Pitch,” he grins.

 

“So I do.  What of it, Snow?”     

 

“Well, you could carry on, for starters.”

 

“I could,” I agree, continuing until the length of my finger is swallowed by him.  He feels scorching hot and like the soft velvet of his wings and I feel as if I’m on fire too.  If this is what my finger feels like in him, I can’t even imagine how I’ll ever last.  I draw it nearly out, then press back in a few times, crooking it this way and that as he relaxes into it.

 

“You can keep going.  ‘S good.”

 

My middle finger joins the other just as easy and I find a rhythm: in, up, down, around.  He snakes a hand down to his cock to rub it furtively, but I bat it away.   “No, you don’t,” I scold, reaching to stroke his erection as I twist my fingers in his arse.  “You know the rules.  You’re not coming until I’m inside you.”

 

“Another, then,” he begs, bowing his hips upwards and into solid air.

 

I prepare my ring finger and move more gradually, inching in carefully.  He’s tighter than ever, the muscles of his arse gripping around me as I press on slowly.  _If I could just find it…_ I think, shifting my cautious search upwards and inwards.  I work to recall a particularly educational diagram from _The Guide_ , but am interrupted when the tip of my finger nudges his prostate.  He cries out, grinding down onto my fingers.  His moan travels straight to my groin as my cock jerks against his leg hungrily.

 

“Sorry,” he says self-consciously, moving his hand to cover his face.  “That was embarrass...-”

 

I’ll have none of it.  “Dead sexy,” I correct, as I bend down to place my tongue at the head of his erection.  I lick the length of it, causing him to wriggle again.  Fuck.  If my fingers had bollocks, they’d surely be coming by now.

 

“Baz,” he pants, writhing as I pump and scissor, his arse full of my fingers.  This is more than I’ve ever wanted and I could do this all night, but my cock must have other ideas as it leaks onto his thigh.  I might combust if I don’t move.  And soon. 

 

Simon must feel the same.  He only babbles when he’s close to the edge and he’s gone now, pleading softly.  “I love… I love you so much, Baz.  I ugh, please, please, please.  I want you to… God, just do it, do it.  I’m gonna die if you don’t.”

 

I think I will too, so I don’t argue.  I withdraw my fingers and he protests at their removal, but stills when I position myself at his entrance.  His hands dig into my waist, urging me further, and I push forward in the smallest of increments until I’m buried to the hilt.  My fangs pop traitorously, filling my mouth as I fill him. 

 

Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  I’m inside Simon.  And it feels... Merlin, it _feels_.  Hot and tight and I’m going to disintegrate into a million scattered pieces and it seems only natural that I bite at the blue-dark vein in the side of his exposed neck, his blood calling to me like a siren’s song.  But I won’t.  I don’t.   I deliberately lick the mole to the side of it instead and tell myself that it’s enough.  And it is.  It has to be.

 

“Are you okay?” I whisper, raising onto my forearms so I can properly see him.  “You’re… you’re so perfect and beautiful and brave and you don’t even know it.  Crowley, you’re so tight.”

 

“Yeah, about that...,” he breathes heavily, furrowing his brow.  “I know about that one.”

 

I don’t ever want to hurt him.  I can’t.  “Should I pull out?” I question tentatively, glancing down in search of an exit strategy. 

 

 

SIMON

 

I don’t ever want to stop him.  I can’t.  It burns and it blazes, but my magic’s delirious with happiness at the rightness of it.  And so am I.    

 

 

BAZ

 

“No!” he clutches my arm in a bruise.  “I’m fine.  It’s just… uncomfortable.  Different.  Can you just stay for a minute?”

 

I could stay as long as Simon wants, wrapped up in this exquisite heat, surrounded by him.  I run my fingers along his face and the lobes of his ears, then through his curls, kissing along his jaw before I move to lick at his tongue.  I want to remember everything and I focus on his taste as I kiss him, savoring the sweetness of butter and sour cherry scones.  I can feel the blood under his skin quicken as he shifts subtly, settling into me.  I raise up onto my palms and wind a hand down to his erection, jerking it slowly.  His cock pulses and fuck, I can feel his arse as it pulses around me too, the tension easing as he gasps into my mouth.  Merlin, how could I ever forget any of this?

 

“I think… I think you can move now.  Just go slow,” he cautions, inhaling swiftly. 

 

His lips find mine, as hot as the sear of a brand as I draw steadily backwards, then forwards again, driving deeper inside with every stroke.  And it’s like something I’ve known all along, like a spell, like lighting a fire in my heart and blowing on the tinder.  The flames build as I worship him, my hands on his face, his arms, tangled in his hair.  My guard’s dismantled, the inferno that is Simon burning into me. 

 

I love you.  I love you.  I love you. 

 

There’s one for every thrust.  Surely he can feel it.

 

The blaze intensifies, his body generating heat like a roaring furnace.  I honestly believe I’ll ignite if we continue like this much longer, cast alight in red and oranges like kindle.  I’m as flammable as the most delicate tissue paper and need to see him before I burn, need to drink him in like cool water. 

 

I pull my upper body up and away, pushing from my thighs as I flex into him.  I seal my fingers onto his hipbones for leverage and his head rolls back, exposing his neck as his hands fist in the sheets.  I don’t know how long I’ll live, but the image is seared in my memory for eternity, his skin golden on the white of the bedding, his gorgeous cock bouncing with every thrust.  I hold him still, wanking him with a firm grasp as he rolls his hips lasciviously.  I steal a glance downward, staring as my length is enveloped by him.  It vanishes and reappears, like magic.  _Fuck_. 

 

He’s been looking at me looking at us and I nearly jump when we both groan in unison.

 

“I… you, you’re so fucking fit,” he growls, mouth open as he watches me sink into him.  “Ugh… come here.  I miss you… I want you here on me.”

 

I’ll do anything he asks, now and forever.  I lower myself to capture his lips as he spreads his legs, devouring him as our tongues fight for dominance.  I feel the weight of his calves on my shoulders, his heels drilling into my back as he pulls me deeper into him.  The angle shifted when his position changed and I think I can reach it.  I resume my search, upwards and inwards once more as I push and pull our hips together.

 

And I’ve found it.  “Oh God, please Baz, fuck…more,” he prattles as he melts around me and I hit it again and again and again.  His breaths are erratic, his eyelashes fluttering.  His hand scrabbles desperately to find mine, and I lace our fingers together and squeeze.  “Just… ugh, faster,” he demands, and I kiss his hand reverently before picking up the pace, merciless.

 

I’m sliding slickly into him, his heels kicking at my back as we rock together.  It feels sinful, decadent, like no one should ever enjoy anything this much, like no one should ever get to love someone else this much.  “I fucking love you,” I pant.  His magic’s _singing_ to mine and it’s rushing out before I can think to stop it.  “It’s… there’s no surprise I love fucking you.” 

 

Simon’s tail thrashes in my peripheral vision, twitching like a caged animal’s, and I’m certain I’ve put my foot in my mouth until he moans, his fingers clutching at my triceps.  His tail winds against my back, pushing me into him insistently, and I can’t take the friction anymore, can’t stand the fever of my own desire.  This is the most delicious torture, like paradise.  And I'm going to lose it.             

 

“Simon… I’m going to…”  The flames are here, licking at my throat.  I’d thought this was how it would end a year ago as fire danced in the skeleton trees, but it was just the beginning.   I withdraw, then plunge in again as he cries out, his arse pulsing around me as my orgasm is pulled outwards.  I’m coming hard, spurting into him, throbbing as the slow beat of my dead heart roars in my ears.

 

I’m still sheathed in him.  I promised he’d come with my cock in his arse and I intend to deliver.  I reach for his shaft, hot and hard and pinned between our abdomens.  I’ve barely laid a finger on him to stroke him and he’s arching up and into my hand.

 

And I feel the magic begin to bind.

 

 

SIMON

 

The static electricity’s been heightening, the voltage increasing in volatile spikes, and I come with a burst, lights flickering as my toes curl.  I grab for his hand, nearly blinded from the flashback, and I can _feel_ it.  His magic loops around mine and encircles me, tethering us together.  It feels like coming home, but to a new place, one you’ve recently come around to and began to call your own.  White sparks float in my vision and I’m not certain if it’s from our magics or from the Christmas bulbs strung up outside.

 

And there it is.  My magic.  Bright and bold and strong and true.  Familiar, but different.  Reliable.  Even.

 

 

BAZ

 

The shadows in the room have grown longer and Simon’s curled into me, eyes closed and pulse steady in the moonlight.  My hands and lips are still charged and only seem to stop trembling when they’re rubbing circles into his back or caught in his curls.  I press a kiss to his cheek and I feel rather than see his smile.  I could just die at the fucking perfection of this moment, but I know he’d revive me.  He already brought me back to life a year ago.

 

I feel as if nothing’s changed, but yet everything has.  Simon had been everything to me before, but now my magic’s inarguably twined in his.  It’s settled and soothed me and I can’t remember ever feeling so at ease with myself, content to watch the snowflakes swirl in the dark.  The last time was probably before I’d been turned, when life was smaller and secure, less complicated.  Well, it’s simple to me now.  All I need is Simon by my side.

 

 

SIMON

 

My magic had hummed and tingled as it spread through every part of my body, but I think it’s over now.  I feel normal (not Normal anymore) and I want to believe my theory’s worked, but I guess there’s only one way to find out, as much as it scares me. 

 

“Baz.”  My voice is scratchy, rough with disuse.  We’ve gone ages without saying anything, not since Baz first interrogated me about how I was feeling, both magickally and physically.  We haven’t had to.  I’ve seen the old cliché in films, the “that was amazing” line as an actor lights a cigarette in their partner’s face like a right berk.  Sometimes Baz smokes when we’re out and he’s pissed, but he knows I don’t love the taste and he’d never smoke in here to begin with.  Besides, there’s nothing to really say.  We both _know_ it was bloody amazing.  Our magics do too.

 

“You alright, love?” he asks, raising up on a forearm so he can study me with a raised eyebrow.  _Love._ My heart leaps into my throat, happiness and affection rushing through my veins in an antidote to last year’s misery and suffering.

 

I kiss him in response, long and soft until his lips feel warm. 

 

 

 

BAZ

 

We can’t start this up again.  Not until I know what’s wrong.

 

“Si –“

 

“Using my words, I know.  I was getting there!  It is a crime to want to snog your boyfriend first?”

 

“If it is, lock me away with you,” I retort, leaning down to meet his open mouth once more.  When we part, he shifts onto his side, wriggling to face me. 

 

“Do… do you want to try it?” he manages, biting his lip.

 

I take his hand and stroke his thumb.  We’ve been building to this moment for so long; it’s hard to believe this is the culmination – that this could all be it.  “Only if you want to,” I murmur as I bend forward to place a good luck kiss to my favorite mole.  He nods and leans for his wand, his face setting into the determined expression I’ve seen so many times over the past years.  I’m prepared for failure, but Simon’s always won his battles and I can’t help but think he’ll win this one too.  After all, I can still feel his magic: whole and balanced and limitless. 

 

He turns to face me, sitting cross-legged on the duvet.  I place my palms on his knees and inhale in preparation, focusing on bringing my magic to the surface.  Now that I’m really concentrating, I swear I can _see_ our magics too.  There’s a faint thin gold cord binding us together that bridges the gap between our chests.  The magic stemming from us appear physically different: the energy in my half burns like a flame, whereas his crackles like an electrical current.  I’ve known it from the moment we first met: he’s the lightning to my brush fire.

 

“Simon,” I marvel, watching as his eyes widen, “do you…?”

 

“Nope, not just you.”  He reaches out to touch it before I can stop him (the fool), but his hand passes through air, although the link remains.  “I’ve never heard of this, have you?”

 

I don’t want to move my grasp, so I settle on sucking my fangs instead as I try to recall the texts I’d leafed through at Watford.  “Never.”  I’ll have to search Father’s private library during a lull in the action tomorrow.  “But we’ve never been exactly ordinary though, have we?”  He laughs and bends forward for a quick kiss. 

 

“Baz, whatever happens…,” He moves to rest his forehead against mine.  His eyes almost look navy in the near-dark. 

 

“I know.”

 

“…I love you.”

 

“More than you know.”

 

“Ready?”

 

In the past weeks, we’ve practiced this nearly a hundred times: the theory, the movement, the elocution.  I’m a good tutor; I know Simon can do this.  I lean into him, digging my fingers into his knees as I conjure my magic upwards again, offering it to him as an amplifier. 

 

“Ready.”

 

He raises his wand and casts, “ ** _Nonsense!_** ” 

 

His wings fold inwards and his tail zips into the base of his spine neatly.  He grins and whoops, victorious, then pulls me into him.  I wrap my arms around him and trail my fingers across the bare expanse of his back.  His skin is smooth and unmarked; there’s no trace of a dragon, just Simon.  I smile into his shoulder.  I knew it would work.  It had to.

 

 

SIMON

 

The heavy burden of this past year has literally been lifted from my back.  I can’t put the feeling into words, but I feel so free.  Weightless.  I’ll actually be able to leave the flat on my own without Penny or Baz spelling me normal.  And my magic’s held, no short-circuiting.  I think we’ve really done it.  My magic feels changed too, more natural.  Instead of green smoke and boiling heat, it’s pure energy, light and clear.  Like the magic I was always supposed to have. 

 

And _yet_.  It almost doesn’t feel right.  My wings and tail have been a physical reminder of the changes brought into my life a year ago.  The rise of Baz and I, and the fall of Ebb, The Mage and the Insidious Humdrum.  Of myself. 

 

We’d talked about this exhaustively, about how I might react and the risks.  He’s been staring at me, his eyes grey and unwavering, like the sea.  I know he knows. 

 

“Part two, then, if your magic’s up for it?” he questions with a raise of his eyebrow.  He already knows the answer but I nod and he settles back into place, his magic already rising to his fingertips.  This next part is incredibly experimental and is based on the opposite variation of a spell Baz created his last term at Watford when he’d been researching disappearing charms.  But for as much as I distrusted Baz in the past, I’ve never doubted his brain.  “Just like we’ve practiced.”  His magic is already swelling, supporting me.

 

I pick up my wand, familiar and solid in my hand.  Before I can change my mind, I wave it and utter the incantation.  **_“Where are my dragons?”_**

****

My wings and tail sprout with an effortless pop, as if they’d been just under the surface.  _Still in working order_ too, I think, as I beat my wings experimentally and wag my tail with a light flick.   Baz grins and mutters under his breath, shaking his head.  “Kinky sod.”

 

That _may_ be part of the reason why we’d devised a plan to keep them, so I’m not exactly going to argue.  Baz and I have certainly reaped the unexpected benefits of my magickal appendages these last few months, especially after he’d discovered their sensitivity.  My wings may seem cumbersome and pointless, but Baz is fond of rubbing his fingers against their softness and he would never deny the allure of my tail.

 

“Pot, meet kettle,” I sing, wrapping my tail around his torso as I pull us down into the covers. 

 

“I’m not complaining.  This pot loves his kettle; they’re very well acquainted.”  He brushes a wayward lock of hair from my face and places his lips to my temple.  “Do you think you can retract them without a spell?  Like you did before?”

 

I roll my shoulders and flex my back, focusing on zippering my spine.  My wings twitch a bit, and my tail retreats a few inches, but nothing happens otherwise.  “Not yet, but I feel like… maybe one day.  The more I use them, the stronger they are.  I feel like they work best when I’ve had my magic, like they’re receptive to it somehow.  I’ll keep working with them.  But for now,” I pause, retrieving my wand to cast, “I’d fancy not having to sleep on my stomach for once.”  My magic feels permanent, but I don’t question Baz when he touches my forearm and guides his magic into mine.  The slow burn of his magic warms me from head to toe and I nestle into him. 

 

He pulls me closer and trails the length of my arm with his fingertips until my eyes grow heavy and my vision blurs.  I’m on the cusp of a dream when his voice interrupts me, rumbling deep in his chest from underneath my head.     

 

“I told my parents.  About us.”  I nearly drift off again and he jiggles his foot against mine.  “Simon.  My family _knows_.”

 

“What?”  I wipe at my eyes, rubbing into my eyelids until the room turns rust-red.  I must be asleep.  This is simply all a dream, although it feels too vivid of one with Baz’s cold toes dragging across my calf.  We hadn’t talked about this, but we hadn’t explicitly talked about him not doing this either.  _Fuck, this is really happening_.  I try again, clearing my throat.  “You did what?”

 

“Well, the subject of Simon Snow, Former Chosen One, was bound to come up today regardless, but it would seem that my dear Aunt doesn’t know how to keep a secret…”

 

“Oh, God,” I choke out, my voice small and thin.  I can’t think of much else to say.   I turn my head and cringe into his armpit pathetically.  Somehow _it_ even smells good, of cedar and bergamot.    

 

“Hush, darling.”  He burrows his nose into my hair and kisses my curls.  Despite my panic, I relax into him as he scratches my scalp.  “I think it went rather well, actually.”

 

“Not possible.  Your family _hates_ me.  I destroyed their home.  Embarrassed, no ashamed… no, _mortified_ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”  I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering the events of that day again, wishing I could retreat behind my eyelids and into the black, neutral, empty space there.  Poor Baz, having to admit to his family that he’s stuck with a dunce like me for a boyfriend.

 

“Not so.”  He grabs my hand.

 

“Uh huh.”  I yank it back, as if my stupidity could infect him.

 

“You weren’t there.  _Trust_ me.  Have I ever lied to you?”  His fingers enclose my bicep.

 

“Yes.  Many times and with great sadistic pleasure.  The one in the Wavering Wood about my Mum was a real treat.” I shrug it off. 

 

“ _Lately_.  Don’t be daft.  Anything before our truce obviously doesn’t bloody count.  I’m making it up to you now, aren’t I?”  He pulls me in closer.

 

“I suppose, if you call scaring me before bed and giving me nightmares ‘making it up to me.’” I push him away.

 

“I swear it, cross my heart and hope to live.  Fiona would fall on a sword for you, she couldn’t stop talking you up.”  He smiles against my ear and my lips falter, following suit.  “Daphne’s just happy to see me happy, especially after witnessing me wandering around like a lovelorn Scrooge during the past few holidays.  I’d been wishing for Snow on Christmas since fifth year and thinking of you, holly jolly with the Wellbeloves, had made me feel like a lump of coal.  I feel like the Grinch who saved Christmas now, bringing joy to all of fucking Whoville.”  His fingers skirt along my jaw and I can’t help but lean into him.  “Father, well, he’s Father, no Christmas miracle there, but that was a given.”  His palms move to frame my chin, cool on the heat of my face.  “But,” he brushes his lips to mine in a ghost of a kiss, “he specifically invited you to join us tomorrow.  If you’ll do me the honors of accompanying me, I’ll have us back to see Bunce on schedule as promised.”  He kisses me properly, all lips and swipes of tongue before pulling away to await my answer. 

 

“I…”

 

“Come home with me, Simon.  I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”  Baz is also incredibly skilled at the art of persuasion.  If Watford had a debate team, he would have been bloody captain.  Sometimes it doesn’t even take words, but he adds more anyway.  “I won’t leave your side.”  His magic settles into mine, warm and sleepy, as I kiss him back in slow response.  Baz is love, home, completion and my magic wants nothing more than to be wrapped in his.  We’ll have to separate eventually, but tomorrow feels too soon.  And I want to do this for him, to stand at his side like he’s done for me again and again.

 

“Yes.” 

 

We kiss until my lips turn to yawns as silver threads its way across the bedspread.  I don’t ever want to stop kissing, but I’m sighing, then breathing and then I must be snoring into Baz’s open mouth as he laughs, peeling back to kiss my forehead.  I suspect he does this every night; sometimes I’m awake enough to catch it.

 

“Good night, Simon.”

 

“Baz.”  My arm is weak with sleep, but I drowsily pull him closer.  I don’t want any space between us. 

 

“Yes, dear?”  He obliges, inching in until we’re aligned from head to toe (excluding his three inches, the prat).   

 

“Happy Christmas.”

 

“Happy Christmas, Simon.” 

 

And to all a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I did give them exactly 61 minutes to do it.


	6. Part Six

BAZ

 

It’s Christmas and I can’t help but think I’ve got everything I’ve ever wanted as Simon smiles up at me with wine-flushed cheeks.  Holidays at Grimm Manor have always been formal affairs since Mother passed, with somberness as an appetizer and polite silence as the main course, but the day has surpassed my admittedly low expectations.  Despite Father’s insistent invitation yesterday, I’d been prepared for interactions as stiff as my shirt collar, but Simon’s magic had floated at the surface throughout dinner, warm and easy.

 

He’d avoided spilling anything on my grey suit (he’s still stunning in it, obviously) and had answered Father’s probing questions about his classes without blundering (another Christmas miracle).  He’d laughed, golden and infectious, as Fiona captivated him with tales of my humiliating adolescence (wasn’t bloody _everybody_ obsessed with a boy band at one point?  And so what if I’d experimented with songs other than the classics on my violin?) until even the baby had giggled.  Mordelia is as taken with Simon as I am and had been content to blather on about childish banalities as he gorged himself on seconds of the turkey.  By the time the table had been cleared and the pudding had been served, he’d moved to sharing anecdotes of our life in London with Daphne, his face blue and soft in the brandy flames. 

 

No one had batted an eye when he’d slung an arm around my shoulder or when I’d reached for his hand between courses, but we’d retreated to the lounge after so I could kiss him properly.  As surprisingly good as this has all been, I’d still rather not partake in excessive displays of affection at the dinner table.  The taste of cranberry and custard are on my tongue as he leans against me, sated and heavy, as I gaze into the fireplace.  If things had gone my way a year ago and I’d surrendered to the blaze, I’d have missed out on all of this, on a year with Simon Snow, on this new feeling of belonging.  _How foolish I’d been._   But he’d been a fool too, acting with his lips instead of his wand.  Thank Merlin for fools.

 

There’s a knock at the door, Shave and a Haircut.  “Fiona,” I whisper, as Simon growls, burrowing into my chest in resistance.  We’d been quite comfortable.  “Come in.”

 

“Oi, lovebirds!  As much as it pains me to separate you two, I gather you’re leaving soon.”  She enters the room with a grin, Mordelia in tow.  “And,” she drawls, “I brought crackers!” She slaps one on Simon’s bum for effect and he yelps, then finally straightens up.  “Can’t believe I almost forgot.”

 

“Must we really engage in these trivialities?” I groan.  Father won’t allow such nonsense at the table, but she always finds a way to sneak them in, every sodding year. 

 

“It’s tradition.  Think of the children,” she counters, laying a brightly colored stack on the rug.  I begrudgingly push off of the sofa and lower myself onto the floor so we form a circle.

 

“Fine,” I relent.  “But only if Simon can be my partner.”

 

“But I wanted Simon!”  Mordelia pouts.  Of course she would.  Who wouldn’t?

 

“Next year.  We’ve never pulled one together before,” I maintain with a deliberate arch of my eyebrow.  Simon thumps my arm.

 

“Doubt that,” Fiona retorts dryly.  “Mordy, there are more than enough since it’s just us four.  You can split the extras with Simon.” 

 

“Deal.”  She beams and blushes as Simon pulls her into a hug.  Crowley, maybe this isn’t just a Pitch thing.  Is everybody in the world infatuated with him?  Well, they can get in line.

 

Simon plucks a red one from the top of the pile and swivels back towards me.  “Ready?” he asks, as I roll my eyes in silent response.  “3, 2...,” he trails as he leans in swiftly, his lips pressing to mine.  He pulls and it’s popping off in my hand before I can even think to move.  Of course he’s rewarded with Belgian chocolate inside and not something utterly ridiculous.  He unwraps a block and stuffs it in his mouth, then sticks out his tongue.  A big glob of chocolate is stuck to it, brown and lumpy.  I sigh.  How tragic.  I’m in love with a wanker. 

 

“Cheater.  Rematch,” I announce, reaching for a green one.  “Play fair this time.”  

 

“Since when have we ever played fair?  And you didn’t even want to play at all before.”

 

“I do now.  No distractions.  It’s on, Snow.  On my count.”  He rubs his hands together for good luck and nods, his brow set.  “3, 2, 1!”  The cracker bursts into my palm and I’ve got the lion’s share this time, but it’s just my usual (bad) luck.  “Rubbish!”  I grouse after examining it, throwing it at him.

 

“Aw, Baz, you mean to tell me you don’t want to wear your purple crown, Your Highness?”  He extracts it from the torn tube and a slip of paper falls out with it.  “You’re wearing it.  No complaining,” he orders as he retrieves the joke page.  He scans it, reads it again and then laughs hysterically, clutching it to his chest as he rolls back onto the rug. 

 

“What?  What is it?  Let me see!”  He refuses to give it up, still howling and snorting, and I lunge forward to take it.  We’re tussling on the floor in an instant, all digging arms and kicking legs and hard ribs, his fist curled tight until I roll us over and kiss him.  He stills and we pant into each other’s open mouths, chests heaving.  I press up onto my palms and Simon tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.  I’m planning on kissing his lopsided grin again when I hear a cough.

 

“Ugh.  Get a room,” Fiona gripes.  “This joke had better be good.  I’ll wait,” she says, tapping her fingers onto the wooden floorboards. 

 

“I’ll share, but His Majesty must be wearing his crown first.”

 

“I will not.”

 

“Then I’ll just share with the others and we’ll all have a laugh without you.”

 

“You _are_ a terrible boyfriend, I knew it all along.”  I tear the paper crown from his grasp and thrust it onto my head amidst a chorus of giggles.  “Satisfied?”

 

“Very.”  There’s a mischievous glint in his blues eyes that makes me want to pay him back later when we’re alone. 

 

“Get on with it, Snow.”

 

“As you wish, my king.”  He gives a little bow.  “Okay.  ‘What…what,’” he chokes, dissolving into laughter again.  “Sorry.  ‘What song do vampires sing on New Years Eve?’”

 

I won’t dignify him with a proper guess.  “I wouldn’t know.”  

 

“’Au….Auld Fang Syne.’”  The room is quiet for a moment until he snickers and then Fiona’s shrieking, whapping her hand against the rug as Mordelia joins in, her high peals of laughter bouncing off the beams, and I’m finally giving in too as he wraps his arms around me.

 

“Thought you’d know that number,” he teases after we’ve laughed ourselves empty.  He straightens my crown and pushes onto his knees, his navy tie flopping over his shoulder.  “Think we can top that one, Mordy?  Want to give it a go?”  He grins at Mordelia and she reddens, dropping her gaze in search of her cracker of choice (she has a penchant for the gold ones).  His eyes find mine and he winks as a bronze curl falls onto his forehead.

 

Father Christmas, I’ve evidently been a _very_ good Baz this year.

 

 

FIONA

 

The boys have left and Daphne’s putting the children to bed.  As tradition dictates, Malcolm and I are in the kitchen bent over a bottle of English whisky.  Now is when we talk about _her_ , but I’ve something else to ask first.  I pour a dram into both of our glasses in preparation. 

 

“Well,” I start, knocking back the contents in a smooth pull, mirroring him as he does the same.  “You ever think you’d see our Basil this way?”

 

“He’s sick.”  His mouth twists and I’m deciding on my best avenue of attack when he coughs abruptly, loud and wet as he turns his back to me.  He whacks his chest as he rummages in the fridge, hacking until he returns with a pitcher of water.  He pours a considerate amount into his cup and swallows, then clears his throat. “Excuse me.  It’s been awhile – that shite bloody _stings_.  As I was saying,” he shakes his head with the closing of his eyes, “The boy’s sick in love.  I’d thought after _she…_ he was afflicted.  Empty.  I knew the Grimm-Pitch name could get him a wife, but I didn’t think he’d ever found someone who would truly accept him.”

 

“Besotted.” I agree, refilling our glasses less generously.  “Completely.  The pair of them.”  Basil had barely spoken throughout dinner, just smiled idiotically as Simon spoke of their life together: how Basil drinks too much saccharine coffee that tastes like pumpkin syrup, the way Basil still speaks funny phrases to him in Greek to make him laugh after a long day of classes, how Basil’s lectures ended earlier than his and how he’d always come to his campus after so they could walk home together.  “Reminds me of another pair I once knew.”

 

“I miss her.”  Malcom’s always been imposing and severe, but it comes out small and sad. 

 

“Like hell.  But a piece of her lives on in him.  You saw that today.”

 

“Saw it?  I _felt_ it.  I can’t believe the Snow boy wasn’t _singed_ by Basilton.  Pitch love magic… it _burns_.  Like a flame you’d step into willingly.”   I’ve been told this once before and now I’m invariably thinking of _him_ , the arsehole.  I’ve tried to shut thoughts of him out over the years, but this new job has brought him to the forefront of my mind.  I’m no bloody sap, but I still can’t help but think of where he is today, if he has anyone who cares about him.  Do vampire covens even celebrate Christmas?  I shouldn’t really want to know what he’s up to now and I really don’t want to know what I’ll do if I ever find him either.  I’d likely start with a right bollocksing.  I take another drag of whisky, wishing I had a cigarette instead.   

 

His head drops low, palms cupping the cool of his glass.  “I can’t believe I’d almost forgotten.  Too long.  It’s been too long without her.”  He runs a hand through his shock of white hair, then twists his fingers together.  “Do you think she’d care?  She’ll die in him if this is the lifestyle he chooses.”

 

“Malcom, just answer me this.  When was the last time you saw him smile?”

 

“I hadn’t.”  He frowns, staring into his drink.  “Not in ages.”

 

“Then there’s no matter of choice.  You’d have chosen her every time.  Simon’s it for him too.  Magic doesn’t lie.”

 

I swirl the amber liquid in my glass and we sit in companionable silence.  I know we’re both thinking of her.  Hard not to on a day like this one.

 

“Fiona,” he says finally, eyes crinkling at the edges.  “What’s all this ruckus I heard about a cracker?”

 

 

BAZ

 

Priya is practically force-feeding Simon pink gingerbread cookies (apparently they’re colored in an homage to Wellbelove), tugging at his wrists as he leans against the fridge, chatting with Premal.  They seem to be getting on alright despite Simon’s nightmarish entrance last Christmas and the Mage’s untimely passing a year ago, respectively.  If I’ve come to know her at all (and I think I have), Penny’s likely been campaigning hard on Simon’s behalf during her dinners with Premal, which have been growing more frequent.  But with Priya, Simon doesn’t even have to try.  All he has to do is growl like a dragon and methodically bite the heads off of the cookies, then the arms, then the legs.  Rinse and repeat and he has her in stitches.  She hands him another one and his eyes drift, flickering to meet mine.  He groans and rubs his stomach dramatically and I just shake my head into my tea cup, slipping further back into the sofa.  He can sort this one out on his own.

 

The cushions drop and Penny’s beside me, offering a mug of mulled wine.  I always think it looks of blood, the kind I’d most like to drink, rich and deep, but it tastes of cinnamon and smells of orange instead.  It’s a close second, so I take a sip regardless.

 

She elbows me in the ribs, then points at Simon across the room.  “Is he _trying_ to stuff himself silly?  Will he ever learn?”

 

“ _You’re_ not the one who will never hear the end of it all night,” I sigh, resting my face in my palms.  “I can almost hear it now.  He’ll be all,” I make my voice higher in near-mimicry of him, “’ _Baz_ , I feel _pregnant_ , you’ve _got_ to have a spell for this.’  As if everything can be solved with magic.”  

 

“Can’t it, though?”  Her eyes flash behind her glasses and she says wryly, “However, I _do_ hope you boys used contraception.”

 

I nearly spit my drink back into my mug.  She has to smack me on the back once, then twice, before I can splutter out, “What _is it_ with you women and your male pregnancy fixation?”

 

“You set yourself up for that one,” she replies smugly with a wave of her hand.  The white bulbs of the tree catch and glimmer in her ring.  I think of Simon in the glow of the lights through the window last night, bright and breathless, and my face grows hot.  I steal a glance at him, hoping he’ll save _me_ , but he’s just inhaling another cookie.  Figures.

 

“I haven’t the foggiest as to what you’re getting at,” I scoff, picking at the button on my suit in feigned indifference. 

 

“Last night go that well?”  She pushes bemusedly, her smile twitching at the corners.  There’s no way she knows.  Right?

 

“Pardon?” I ask innocently. 

 

“Honestly, Basil, don’t act so surprised,” she huffs, rolling her eyes as she crosses her arms over her jumper.  “I’ve got years on you when it comes to reading Simon.  And I’ve been watching you for just as long, thanks to him.  Yesterday was your anniversary and you’re quite the romantic.  And you’re sitting here like the cat that ate the canary, doused in Simon’s magic and staring at him with eyes like fairy lights.”

 

“You _knew_?”  My mouth hangs open, dumb and motionless. 

 

“Close your mouth, Baz.  It really doesn’t suit you,” she snorts, leaning to adjust her knee-highs socks.  They’re patterned argyle, red and green for Christmas.  “You seriously thought I wouldn’t notice all the magic _leaking_ all over the flat?” “My hair’s been unmanageable for weeks on account of all the static!”  She flips the ends of her hair and smirks.  She’s calmer than I’d anticipated, but perhaps it’s just temporary smugness from figuring it out.  Being right intoxicates people like Bunce and I, sends serotonin rushing to our brains. 

 

“And you’re not miffed?  This whole time he’s been so torn up over your ‘No Secrets’ rule.  He’d insisted on being sure, on it working out first, so I…”

 

“No.”  She places a hand on my arm.  “The whole point of not keeping secrets was so that Simon wasn’t being eaten alive by them, so that he wasn’t alone.  I can’t possibly be mad.  This time he had you.  And it’s not like I didn’t get to help,” she adds with a quirk of her eyebrow.

 

“ _Help_?  I don’t recall engaging in a ménage à trois, Bunce.  I’m a monogamous man.”

“Very funny, Pitch.”  Her eyes narrow and she pushes me with her formerly-soothing palm into the back of the sofa.  “I left reference materials for you all around the flat.  Don’t tell me you seriously thought it was a coincidence to find my copy of _The Theory of Magickal Anniversaries_ on the kitchen counter.”

 

“You’re always going on about wanting to stop time for Micah!  I assumed you were reading it for your own amorous purposes.” 

 

“Fair assumption, but a wrong one,” she says sweetly.  “It’s why I would have been first in class if I’d returned.”

 

“And the assumptions continue,” I mutter darkly. 

 

She shoves me again.

 

 

 

SIMON

 

It’s a wonderful thing, not having to worry about wings and a tail, but I’m not used to being a stone or so lighter.  I plunk down beside Penny and throw an arm around her a little _too_ freely, jostling her mug of wine out of her grasp and onto the sofa.  Baz’s vampire reflexes manage to keep his drink mostly intact, though some droplets splash up and onto his long fingers.  His tongue slides out to swipe them and I know I’m blushing, thinking about all the other things he licked last night.  He catches me gaping and raises an eyebrow, thrusting his chin towards the spill.  Purple is already pooling, seeping into the sand-colored cushions.  Shite.    

 

“Sorry, Pen,” I breathe, looking around furtively.  Mrs. Bunce is nowhere in the vicinity, thank God, or she’d surely have my tail, especially after last year’s fiasco.  Penny raises her hand in the start of a spell, but before I can stop myself, I interject, “I’ve got it!”  I’m not exactly an authority on Shakespeare, but I think I know enough to pull this one off, courtesy of Baz.  I extract my wand from my inner pocket and aim at the mess, casting “ ** _Out, damned spot!_** ”  The stain recedes and lifts perfectly without so much as a mark. 

 

I turn to Penny with a sheepish grin, but it slips when I realize she’s not smiling back.  _Oh_. 

“Simon…,” Baz cautions, but I’m already reaching for her, burrowing myself in her thick hair as the shame unwinds, twisting within me.

 

“Pen,” I whisper, and I’m going and I can’t stop, the sorry excuse expanding outwards.  “This thing happened where I, and then I, but I didn’t and I couldn’t and you see, my magic it was back, and then it wasn’t and I, and then Baz, it was there, but only when we were, uh, _doing stuff_ and I was gonna tell you I swear, but in my own way once I knew and I know we don’t keep secrets, but I -”

 

“Simon!” She pulls me off of her so she can look me in the face.  “That’s more than enough, really.  I already know.”  She pats her hair back into place and finally, _finally_ , softens. 

 

“You _knew_?”  My lips part and my mouth falls. 

 

“Mouth breather,” Baz taunts, sipping from his mug.  I shut it.

 

“Si, I love you, but you’ve slightly exploited my willingness to take care of you.  D’you know how many packages of biscuits we have in our cupboards?  Nineteen.  We’re never out.  Neither of you are exactly good liars.” 

 

 _Oops._ We have been sending Penny on dumb errands.  But she’d asked?  Well, at least at first when I was still down and out from the Mage and would barely leave the flat or the depths of my blanket cocoon.  “Not all of it was for sex stuff!” I offer lamely, likely a little too loudly.  Baz’s eyes are daggers and I adjust my volume before he stabs me.  “We were practicing too.  Magic, I mean.”

 

“I gathered,” she retorts, pushing the bridge of her glasses up her nose.  “I do have all of my senses.”  She tilts her head to appraise me.  “Much different than your magic before, Simon.  Less smoke, more electricity.  No shock, just a current.  It flows,” she observes.  She suddenly leans over to sniff Baz and he recoils into the sofa cushions, fingers clutching a pillow as a shield.  “ _You_ smell like a lightning strike,” she announces, “and _you_ ,” she twists back to face me, “smell like a bonfire.  Though it’s just a top note, I think.”  She wiggles her nose, inhaling again.  “Your bases haven’t changed.”

 

“Uh, Penny,” I scratch under my collar.  “Do you think everybody knows?  Is it that obvious?  I don’t want to ruin Christmas for your mum again by announcing Baz and I are shagging.  Which I will totally do, as I’m not embarrassed of it, at all, I’m actually the opposite, but you know, there are children here.”  Baz exhales so rapidly, it sounds like a hiss.  His head’s in his hands and his cheeks have slight patches of color on them.  Penny lays a hand on his knee as if to restrain him. 

 

“Imbecile,” he grumbles.

 

“Be kind.  Simon could have a point.”  She taps her index finger against her jaw, considering.  “I’ve been doing some reading of my own about love magic… fine, okay, yes, Basil, I admit it,” she concedes in response to an insinuating cough, “it was mainly just to help you two, but whatever makes you happy.  Anyway, there’s a well-known phenomenon.  It hasn’t really been researched because magic is so individually unique and our community is so small, but essentially, those who have been in love or who are in love are more sensitive to the vibrations of love magic.  And even then, it’s really only detectable to those who are closest to us, who feel our magic the most and know it best.  Theorists aren’t certain if this is an evolutionary thing, some sort of built-in territorial response to when we lived in even smaller colonies, or if it’s a more positively intended trait, like a social barometer.  Either way,” she says, looking from me to Baz, then back again, “I think it’ll just be me.  Maybe my parents too, if they ever get their noses out of their work for the evening, but if so, it’ll be faint.  No reeking perfume or neon sign.”

 

“Very interesting, Bunce.”  Baz breathes in as he tilts closer to her to return the favor.  “As American as apple pie.  Such a distinct bouquet when paired with sage.  When you returned from the States this summer, I assumed you’d switched shampoos, but now I’m wondering… is there something you’d like to tell us?”

 

“Nothing you apparently don’t know already,” she sidesteps, pursing her lips as she bats Baz’s hand away. 

 

“Penny!”  Premal shouts from the kitchen.  “We’re out of mulled wine.  What do I need to add to it again?”

 

“Saved by the bell,” she snickers as she scoops up our mugs and steps over Baz’s feet. 

 

“Did she… did she just _conjure_ that diversion?” Baz wonders, turning to gape at her as she leaves.

 

“Likely,” I laugh, scooting closer to him.  “Come here.  You’re too far away.”

 

“Been joined at the bloody hip all day,” he whinges, but it’s all an act to preserve his dignity.  He complies too readily, inching over until our legs are touching from hip to knee. 

 

“You boys wanted refills, right?” Penny calls, dangling a mug from its handle.

 

“Yes, please!” I answer.  “It seems we have a lot of catching up to do.”

 

She whirls around in response, purposefully ignoring me as Penny’s dad descends into the armchair opposite us.  “I’ll take one as well, Penelope,” he chimes.  He lifts his round wire glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose absentmindedly, then rests them back into place, blinking owlishly.  He looks out of place without a screen or a book in front of him.

 

“Professor Bunce,” I greet him.  “Happy Christmas.  It’s good to see you.”

 

“And to you.  You’re looking better than you did at this time last year,” he notes casually, as if I hadn’t collapsed at their door, winged and pointy-tailed like the spawn of Satan.  “Hello, Basilton,” he acknowledges.  “And please, call me Martin.”

 

“Only if you call me Baz.  Basilton’s preferable to Tyrannus, but not by much.”

 

“Then we can agree.”

 

“Professor – Martin,” I revise.  “I didn’t think we’d get to see you today.  Penny said you had a work emergency.”

 

He scratches at his fingers as if itching to get back to a fascinating text.  “Thank heavens a good emergency demands less time than a bad one, though the urge to research remains just as strong.  But it’s Christmas Day.  It can wait a little longer - at least until after I fill you both in.”

 

“Sir?”  I ask, an old habit from my meetings with the Mage.

 

“ _Martin_ ,” he sighs.  “Call me Martin.”

 

“Sorry,” I pause, “Martin.”

 

“There’s been activity, _magickal_ activity, throughout Britain since late spring, we believe.  Hard to say since when exactly, as the movement was barely discernible to even our instruments at first.”  His eyes bore into the coffee table for a moment, glassy behind his frames.  Something heavy falls in the kitchen with a thud.  Penny shrieks, which morphs into a laugh and Professor Bunce shakes his head, then continues.  “Our team has continued to monitor the holes for changes since, well, you know, your defeat of the Humdrum, Simon.  The movements were small at first.  Subtle shifts to the borders.  Magic returning in centimeters, then inches, then feet through autumn.  We’d been thrilled, elated, at that progress alone, but another event happened.  It occurred in either the early morning hours of today or the late hours of last night – we haven’t entirely determined yet.”  Baz’s fingers edge to my thigh, digging in like razors.  “ _A Great Rush_ ,” he intones, as if there’s already a name for it.  “Hampshire was obliterated last year, the magic sucked dry from every crevice, but today, I was able to walk the length of the hole completely unaffected.”  He smiles broadly.  “Good news for you and your family, Baz.”

 

“But I’d thought… I’d thought the magickal atmosphere had been compromised.  Maybe permanently.”

 

“You remember our talks about Chernobyl, right Simon?”  I nod and he resumes.  “Complete and utter devastation.  Catastrophic environmental ruin, flora and fauna dead and dying, ecological aftershocks for years.  But in death, there is rebirth.  New life.  Even _there_ the grass grows green.  Life goes on, even when we think it can’t.  Magic’s no different.”

 

I nudge Baz, locking my fingers in his.  “Your parents can’t hate me now that the Haunted Mansion is inhabitable again, right?”

 

He doesn’t answer, but squeezes my hand, looking to Professor Bunce.  “It’s… true?  Really?” 

    

“It would appear so.  Hampshire withstood a rigorous amount of testing today, as well as various other impacted sites.  We theorized the magic would return one day, but we imagined a gradual trickle, not a tsunami,” he chuckles, stopping to rub at his lenses with his sleeve.  “We’ll continue to monitor the energy levels for this reason, but if it holds by the New Year, we’ll begin to inform those who were affected.”  He looks up, his gaze kind.  “I know you’ve had a down year, Simon.”  His voice softens, quiet compared to the noisy din in the kitchen.  “I thought you might like some good news for once.  Especially on Christmas.”

 

“I – yes, Pro… Martin.  I’m... I don’t even know what to say.  Thank you.”

 

“Yes, thank you Martin,” Baz repeats earnestly.  “Father will be pleased when you’re able to update him.”  He taps his fingertips against my hand, then clears his throat.  “I – would you mind if Simon and I stepped away for a moment?” 

 

“Not at all.  While you’re at it,” he adds, squinting over my shoulder, “would you mind checking on what’s taking them so bloody long?”

 

I rise, but don’t have the chance to reply.  Baz still has a hold of my hand and virtually drags me down the hall and into the loo where he bolts the door with a quick snap.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss, stepping towards the exit.  Baz blocks me, thrusting his arms out at both sides.  “They’re going to think we’re up to something in here.  Wait, you’re not _trying_ to get up to something in here, are you?”  He shushes me in answer and I flail at him, but he edges me closer and closer to the tub until I’m forced to sit on the edge.  I glare upwards, crossing my arms in admission of defeat.  Trying to get past Baz is like tangling with a concrete wall.  “Well?” 

 

“Well, what?” he retorts, hands on his hips.  “Do you honestly think this is some coincidence?”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“ _The Great Rush_?  Come on Snow, don’t be thick.  Last night _we_ and _now_ …”  His hands move to his hair and he swipes it away from his face.  Baz normally slicks it back for special occasions, but today he’s left it loose for me.  Merlin, he _is_ really bloody handsome.  We haven’t been alone since early this morning and so help me God, _I_ am thinking about getting up to something in here, amidst the floral hand towels and the potpourri.  _Focus._

 

“You heard him.  Nature finds a way and all that.  You seriously believe our,” I break to snigger, “our... _sex magic_ is filling the holes?”

 

“It filled at least one,” he snaps, then snorts as I burst out laughing, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a look I’ve privately dubbed fond exasperation.  So much for a clandestine chat in the WC.  “Look, the timeline sorts out, you have to admit.  It started in the spring and now last night… is it really all that barmy?”

 

“To think what?  That us having sex is somehow repairing the magickal fabric in all of Britain?  It was likely the anniversary of the magic leaving, right?  I mean, we’re just two people, Baz.”

 

His brow knits as he leans against the wall, all angles.  “Maybe, but how does that explain your magic coming back this spring?  And besides… you’re you.  _You’re_ magic.”  A lock of hair falls into his eyes and he huffs, blowing it off of his face.  “ _It_ was magic,” he adds softly.  The look he gives me makes my throat tighten, makes me want to believe. 

 

“You want to know what I think?”  He abandons his post, pushing off the pastel wall to perch on the toilet gracefully.  Our knees touch as he tilts in closer and I swallow.  “I think it’s our civic duty to keep at it until every last particle in each blade of grass in the United Kingdom is restored.  And then some, for good measure, just to make sure.  What do you say?”

 

He kisses me with such fervor that my hands fly up into his hair and I’m falling fast into the tub.

 

 

BAZ

 

We’ve said our goodbyes and I’m waiting for Simon at the entryway, his scarf in my arms.  He and Bunce had circled back for more gingerbread men at her insistence even though Simon has likely demolished upwards of a dozen already.  When he finally shuffles around the corner, he’s navigating a high stack of cookies, cramming them into his coat pockets sheepishly.

 

“No Bunce?”  I ask, peering towards the kitchen.    

 

“Begged off to phone Micah.  She told me to tell you Happy Christmas again and that her gift to us is that she’ll be home tomorrow evening.”  He pinkens slightly, biting his lip, then replaces it with another cookie.  _Merlin_.  We can’t leave soon enough. 

 

Before I can respond, my mobile buzzes in a series of texts.  _Fiona._   I scan quickly, then tuck my phone back into my jacket.     

 

“You…,” he splutters, crumbs spraying my shoulders as he captures my forearm, “I know that face.  You’re plotting.” 

 

“Your _present_ ,” I correct, making a show of wiping my front.

 

“But we said we weren’t exchanging!” he protests, lips folding into a pout. 

 

“Loophole,” I concede, holding my hands up between us as he scowls.  “It’s for both of us, really.  Barely counts.”

 

“Well, where is it then?”  He pats my pockets, eyeing me suspiciously. 

 

“I have to give it to you later,” I deflect through gritted teeth.  Crowley, I’d forgotten how persistent he can be.  “Not here.”

 

“Oh, so back at the flat, hm?”  He presses his lips together as he juts his chin forward and I suddenly have the feeling he’s mocking me for some reason. 

 

“Yep.”

 

“Sounds like a load of tosh,” he snickers in dismissal.  “I’m happy to receive your _present_ , if you want to call it that, but don’t act like sex with you is some gift.”

 

“But what if I put a bow on it?” I smirk, leaning in to wrap his scarf around his neck.

 

“Wanker.”

 

“Not if I have you.”  I tug him forward.

 

“Hey, Baz?”

 

“Yes, Simon?” 

 

“Look up.”

 

His eyes flick upwards and I follow his gaze.  _Mistletoe._ I scoff.  “Do you really think I’m that soft, Snow?”  He opens his mouth to argue, but I put a finger to his lips.  “Because you’d be right,” I admit, pulling the ends of his scarf to close the gap between us.

 

Very merry, indeed.

 

 

SIMON

 

Baz doesn’t make me wait, just ushers me towards the bedroom as I narrow my eyes at him.  My therapist had suggested not exchanging presents with Penny and Baz in order to limit any potential added stressors due to the anniversary of the Mage’s passing.  We’d all agreed (or so I’d thought), but leave it to Baz to flout the rules. 

 

I reach for the doorknob and Baz nods.  At first, the room looks unchanged, but then I notice it.  There’s a tiny fluff of black sitting on our bed, a red ribbon tied around its neck.  As the door shuts, it looks up, focusing its laser-green eyes on us.  Little white fang tips poke from its mouth as it meows a hello.  The sound of it goes straight to my heart, turning it over.  I drop to my knees and it totters over to meet me at the corner of the bed, its petite legs unsteady. 

 

“Don’t worry,” Baz says, his hand across my upper back.  “Barrier spell.  She hasn’t been here long.  Fiona helped me to arrange the surprise.”

 

My mouth’s hanging open in shock, but I’m so happy, I don’t even care if Baz takes the piss.  “How did you know?”

 

“Told you vampires can read minds,” he replies, his face straight as he taps his index finger to his forehead. 

 

“Come off it,” I growl, touching my thumb to her tiny black nose as she sniffs.  “Not this load of rubbish again.”

 

“You talk to yourself when you think I’m asleep.”  He folds onto the floor as he extends a finger to her.  She sags into him, letting him scratch her chin as his smile grows.  I knew it – it _is_ the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.  “A lot.  Especially when you’re studying.” 

 

“And Penny?”

 

“She helped me check your rental agreement and accompanied me to the shelter too.  We picked her out together.  She’s also quite thorough at researching supplies.”

 

“And you?”

 

“Always wanted a cat.”  He draws his finger down her spine and she purrs.  “And before you ask, no, I’m not going to eat her, Snow.  I draw the line at household pets.”

 

“What’s her name?”

 

“Thought I’d let you do the honors.” 

 

I scrutinize her, running my hand along her side.  Her fur is shaggy, but she’s soft, like a cloud.  “Puff?”

 

“We already have a magic dragon.”

 

She’s as black as night, paws and whiskers included, with a splash of white on her chest.  “Pitch?”

 

“We already have an evil vampire.”

 

She appraises me right back, tilting her head as her too-long canines gleam in the light.  “Batty?”

 

“You’re driving _me_ batty, Snow.”

 

“Somehow this doesn’t feel like I have the exclusive naming rights,” I mutter.

 

“Of course you do.  It just doesn’t have to be instantaneous,” he suggests.  “Do you think my mother dreamed up my doozy of a name in a moment’s notice?”  He extends his legs, bending to unlace his dress shoes.  “She had nine months to think on it.  You can always sleep on it, dear.”

 

I love that I have a pet.  And I love that one night together has Baz dropping pet names left and right like the marshmallow he is.  And, “I love your name.  It suits you,” I tell him, turning to help him yank off his oxfords.  “Speaking of sleep, I’m absolutely knackered.  Does she need anything before bed?”

 

“Already fed and watered.  All she needs is for a devastatingly handsome cat dad to cuddle her.”

 

“Well then,” I rise, climbing onto the bed and patting his side, “don’t make her wait.”

 

After we’ve changed and settled, she curls in between us, the tip of her tail resting on her front paws. 

 

“Baz?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Thank you.  For last night.  For today.  For everything.”

 

He winds his hand across the duvet to touch mine.  “Of course.  What’s mine is yours.  Batty, my heart, my,” he pauses to laugh faintly, “my sex magic.”

 

“Hah!  I knew you liked Batty.”  I squeeze his palm in triumphant satisfaction.  “But me too.  Anything.”

 

“Since we’re talking _anything_ , this sleeping arrangement…”

 

“I know,” I interrupt.  “It’s going to drive _me_ batty.  Feels like we’re back at Watford with an aisle in between us.  She can have her way tonight, but tomorrow, the rules begin.”

 

His eyes are closed, but I can see him smile.  “Funny.  I didn’t see you as the disciplinarian.”  

 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll balance me out.”

 

“Bloody likely.  I’m a pushover when it comes to you.  The cat will be no different.”  His thumb draws circles on the back of my hand, eventually slowing as his breathing becomes deeper.   

 

“Baz?”

 

He cracks an eye open.  “Yes, Snow?”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you too, Simon.” 

 

All’s calm and bright.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd been hoping to finish this in time for Christmas and was on track, but then this part came to be. I hadn't originally planned on spending time with Baz's family, but it wouldn't let go. 
> 
> Sadly, this is the end of our story, but I do have the teeniest bit of an epilogue for you.


	7. Epilogue

BAZ

 

Sometimes I think that it’s healing me too, that I’m more present.  That there’s not such a thick veil between myself and the living.  Even Simon’s noticed that I don’t have to feed as much lately.  I’m undoubtedly still a vampire - _that_ hasn’t changed, but I’m just not as thirsty.  I don’t understand it, but then again, I’ve never known much about this facet of myself anyway. 

 

Simon, Bunce and I have knocked around some ideas.  They’re probably as curious as I am on the subject of my vampirism, if not more.  It’s likely a fascinating topic in theory, but I live with the repercussions of my condition every day.  I don’t really care about the intricacies – I’m changed forever regardless and have gotten on well enough despite my ignorance so far. 

 

Well, that’s not the complete truth.  I do care about one thing.  I don’t want to live forever, for obvious reasons.  _The_ only reason – Simon.  I don’t think I _will_ , but I really don’t know for certain.  I’ve clearly aged since I was turned, so it’s possible I’m just immortal until I reach my natural, God-given end (barring interference from stake, bullet or decapitation, of course).

 

I don’t know how many others there are like me, but Simon’s quick to bring up Nicodemus, how he’d looked as old as Ebb had that night at the hideout, how there were lines on his face.  Bunce believes magic likely affects things somehow, that it tempers and protects, that it makes it possible for me to exist on the human spectrum and that it shields me from the full vampire experience.  Maybe she’s right.  I don’t know.

 

But for now, I chose to focus on what I do know.  On Simon.  How I’ll never be convinced it’s real no matter how many times his fingers sink automatically into my hipbones.  How he curls into my chest after, his eyes closed in a sigh.  How there’s a little scar on his inner thigh (he can’t remember how he got it – he thinks from the goblins, possibly, but I’m satisfied that I’m the only one who has seen it).  How his magic feels, how he looks, how he smiles (like a blasted Greek God or a shooting fucking star).  How the tip of his tongue edges over his lips when he’s studying.  How he smells like a mixture of something sweet and brown and of my shampoo (he'd been serious about stealing it, thank Merlin) - another reminder that this is really happening, that his scent is some heavenly mixture of the two of us.  How he still tastes of sour cherry scones (I'd all but demanded the recipe from Cook Pritchard).  How I’m happy too, despite all of the shit that’s happened to me.    

 

Aleister Crowley, I really am living a charmed life.  And life with Simon is just beginning.

 

 

SIMON

 

My magic’s kept, but I sometimes wake in the middle of the night, sweating and with a pounding heart, certain it’s been taken from me again.  Baz is always there to assure me it’s real, to raise his magic to the surface so it wraps itself in mine.  Thankfully, my magickal psychologist has been helping me along, and Batty’s been a right therapy cat, content to settle and purr on my chest for hours.  I’ve been meeting with Penny’s dad often as well, which helps.  He seems positive that the magic won’t reverse and had invited me out with his team to see the holes for myself.  I’d been nervous to visit Hampshire, but it’d been healing with Baz by my side, walking with his hand in mine.

 

I’m learning that life is a lot of what I don’t know, that it’s a lot more undecided than I’d ever reckoned.  So when it scares me, I focus on what I do know.  On Baz.  How I’ll never get tired of this, no matter how many times it’s been.  How he hisses like the vampire he is when I use my teeth, his incisors white and sharp (and how I’m really not frightened by them at all).  How his hands are so strong that he could crush a rock, but I’d never know it, the way they tease, finger-light, to draw the magic out of me.  How his arms were made to fit me perfectly.  How his face is all angles until he’s smiling at me and his eyes crinkle.  How he sucks on his fangs when he’s thinking or reading.  How he still smells of cedar and bergamot, but how it's now mixed with something a little more charged.  How he tastes absurdly like pumpkin mocha breve.  How I’m happy too, despite all of the bad that’s happened to me.

 

And I’m not just carrying on anymore.  With Baz, life is just beginning.    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that's really it. Any comments or kudos would be greatly appreciated (right now it feels like I've been shouting out into the void). If you've made it this far (all 30,793 words), thank you for reading! 
> 
> Happy New Year to all of my fellow shippers - hopefully we get Wayward Son in 2019! Think Simon will get his magic back this way? ;)
> 
> I do have a follow up in my mind, but my rate or work is incredibly slow due to my insistence on editing every word 200 times over (if I hadn't forced myself to post, I'd likely still be editing for the next week). I'm hoping to have it finished by the spring. Hopefully it won't be nearly as long, but brevity has never been my strength.


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